“Well, I was thinking about that too,” Stella responded with a smirk. “Have you considered online dating?”
If Beatrice had been drinking, she would have spat it back up. “Are you serious? So instead of having a mystery person try and kill me, I can meet him face to face first? Online dating is for psycho’s and the morbidly depressed. I haven’t gotten that bad yet.” She said the words, but she only half believed them. She was one more romantic movie and box of tissues away from all but giving up on men at this point.
“Nonsense,” Stella scoffed, flicking her wrist as she did. “That’s such a stereotype. Besides, did you know that I’ve been on a handful of online dates? I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?”
Beatrice stared at her friend in shock. Stella was prone to bouts of unreasonableness when it came to men, she always had been, but this was something else. The fact that she even thought it to be an option was nothing short of… well Beatrice didn’t even know what. Maybe she was the one that had been poisoned.
“It’s not happening,” Beatrice said, matter-of-factly, crossing her arms to emphasize the point. “Now can you please drop it?”
Stella scoffed, downing the last of her champagne in one big gulp. After which she picked up the sponge cake, taking a good long bite, making sure to lick her lips afterwards, as if she really did enjoy the dish. It was all an act to annoy Beatrice of course, and it was working.
In response, Beatrice picked the cake up from the countertop holding it away from herself like it was some rabid animal that might bite her. “And if you’re done with this...” without a moment of hesitation or remorse, she dumped the cake in the bin. Usually Beatrice hated wasting food, baked goods especially, but to her this wasn’t a baked good. It was trash and trash went in the garbage.
She sat back down, watching Stella as she did. There was something about the mischievous expression on Stella’s face that she wasn’t liking. If she didn’t know any better, which she did, she would guess that this wasn’t the last she was going to hear about online dating.
7
I don't see why you'd want to come back here," said Stella, as she looked around the Mon Chere Café where Beatrice had nearly been killed. "It gives me the jitters."
"You know I'm not one to run away from danger nor from my problems," said Beatrice crossing her arms as she took a sip of her tea, her eyes roaming the café as she did. She had ordered the tea from the counter, rather than the wait staff. And even though she saw them make it right before her eyes, she still gave it a good long sniff before sipping it.
After her chat with Stella the previous night, Beatrice knew that the next logical step was to return to the café and interview the waitress and chef. She had gotten good at the process and actually was more than adept at sniffing out a lie.
So, with the girls in tow, they made their way down for an innocent Monday morning brunch. The only problem was that, despite how hard she had looked, she couldn't see the waitress who had served her the food. And she wasn’t hard to miss too. Her red hair made her stand out like a sore thumb.
"My tea tastes funny," mused Sophie as she took another long sip from her cup.
Beatrice reached forward, taking the cup from Sophie and looked inside. She sighed and shook her head the moment. "Sophie, that's hot water with salt mixed in. You didn't order tea."
"Which is why it tastes so funny," Sophie responded, taking another sip of her salted water.
Beatrice decided to ignore Sophie's antics for the time being. Unfortunately, that was just the way it had to be sometimes. The poor dear meant well, and any other day Beatrice may have humored her, or indeed ordered her an actual tea, but today just wasn't the day for that. She continued to look around the café, desperate for the red headed waitress.
"Let's examine the facts," said Beatrice, her eyes still searching. "What do we know?"
"Well, we know that someone was killed in this place and it was poison. We know that they were served by the waitress and the food was cooked by the chef. There was no one else that was handling the food or beverages that we know, so, unless someone else had an opportunity to slip something in the pie, there are no other suspects."
"Except for Fred," said Sophie surprisingly. It was moments like that which always shocked Beatrice. She had to remind herself that Sophie wasn't always lost in her own head. This was so much that case that sometimes she was almost convinced that the woman was faking the whole thing, just to get a laugh.
"And he was in the café that very same day," agreed Beatrice. "It's not a coincidence that he appeared after all these years. It can't be."
It was then that Beatrice spotted a familiar face. It wasn't the waitress that served her, but the waiter that had taken her order. With those tattoos and piercing he wasn’t hard to miss. She waved him over, taking a little longer than she would have liked to get his attention. The service here really had gone downhill.
"What will it be?" He asked, sounding bored as he kept his eyes on the notepad and off the customers.
"Oh, just a question for now," Beatrice responded pleasantly.
"A what?" He asked, looking at her in confusion. It was as if he had no idea what a question was. And the idea that she would be asking him one was positively ludicrous.
"It's just about the red headed waitress that works here. Do you know when her next shift is?"
"Lady, I have no idea what you are talking about," he said, scratching at one of his tattoo's which had begun to flake. A clear health code violation. Beatrice was sure that this would be the last time she ever visited the Mon Chere.
"The redhead," Beatrice confirmed. "Long, flowing red hair, pretty face, female..." She hadn't gotten the best look at her face at the time. As soon as the order was down she was gone before Beatrice had gotten the chance.
"Yeah. No one of that description works here. Now, if you don't have an order..." And he literally turned and walked away, scratching at his flaky tattoo the whole time.
"Well that was rude," Stella said, eyeing him with contempt. It may have been the first time ever that Stella's eyes didn't stray below the equator.
"Rude and eye-opening," Beatrice said with a sly smile. As much as she hated to admit it, this whole detective thing really gave her a buzz. There was just something so darn invigorating about the whole thing. "The waitress doesn't work here. So, she snuck in, added the poison and served the food up. What does that tell you?"
"That she really wants to be a waitress," Sophie chimed in, still sipping on her salt water."
"Well, that and the fact that she knows Fred from somewhere else," Beatrice said, ignoring Sophie's obvious misstep.
"So, what now?" Stella asked.
"We finish our drinks and say au revoir to the Mon Chere. Something tells me I won't be coming back here again."
They finished their drinks, left the bare minimum tip and got out of dodge before there was a chance for the hipster waiter's skin flakes to fall on to any one of them.
The next step was of course to track down the red headed waitress. Beatrice just didn't know how they were going to go about that.
--
They didn't have to wait long to find the waitress. In fact, they probably had to wait as little time as possible to track her down.
They were in the parking lot of the Mon Chere, Beatrice trying to find her car keys buried at the bottom of her purse, when they spotted her.
"Where are they?" Beatrice snapped at herself as she rummaged through the purse. The three ladies were standing by her car and had been for a good two minutes.
"They're always in the last place you look,” said Sophie cheerfully.
"Thanks Sophie," Stella sighed as she held her hand over her face, shielding it from the sun. She was dressed in a long black dress that was, as always, very tight, and the heat seemed to be getting to her. "Can you hurry it along dear, I think I'm starting to melt."
"I am, I am. I just can't find them. I know I put them..." She dived back into
her purse which was now resembling Felix the Cat's magical bag.
"Maybe she can help," said Sophie, more to herself than anyone. "She's good at breaking into things."
"What are you talk --" Beatrice looked around to see who Sophie was talking about, nearly biting off her tongue when she saw it. It was the red headed waitress, currently using a coat hanger to break into a large white van. "Sophie! That's her!"
"Who?" Sophie asked, not catching on.
"The waitress." Still a blank face. "From the... Oh come on!" Beatrice hurried across the parking lot towards the waitress who was still struggling with the van. The two women followed Beatrice in hot pursuit; like backup and were there to defend and intimidate.
"Lost your keys?" Beatrice asked as she snuck up behind the waitress.
"Oh my -- !" The waitress damn near jumped from her skin and she spun around, back pressed up against the van. "You scared the daylights out of me," she said, breathing heavily as she held her hand over her chest. She really was quite stunning. That red hair seemed to have a life of its own; flowing and ebbing down her back. And, at perhaps thirty years of age, Beatrice couldn't help but admire her flawless porcelain skin. It would be enough to make anyone jealous.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to --"
"This isn't what it looks like, just so you know. It's my van. I just lost the keys and need to get inside." For some reason, Beatrice didn't believe her. It was the way her eyes looked back and forth, indicating that she was lying. Not to mention the Sports Illustrated magazine sitting on the dashboard – something a woman would never buy. Beatrice didn't care about grand theft auto, not right now.
"I don't know if you remember me or not," Beatrice said. She spoke softly and carefully, she didn't want to scare the waitress off.
The waitress looked at her for a moment in confusion, before smiling in realization. "Oh but of course. Do they know anything yet? How such a dreadful thing may have happened?"
"Allergic reaction," Beatrice lied. "So, tell me, how long have you been working here?
"Oh, I've been around a while," she said, but she must have seen something on Beatrice's face because a second later she was rushing out her next words, “I work night shifts mainly. I'm a student so I study during the day... work at night. It's quite the life." A nervous laugh and Beatrice could tell that she was all but lying.
"But you're new here," Beatrice pressed, taking a step closer. As she did the red headed waitress took one back, now totally up against the van. With Stella on one side and Sophie on the other, it must have been very intimidating... well that would be if Stella wasn't trying her best to duck out of the sun and Sophie wasn't chewing on her shock pink hair like she was trying to eat it.
"I am, relatively. I don't know how old a few months is, but..." Her eyes were darting every which way. She was beyond nervous.
"And where about are you from?"
"Look, I've really got to go. I have an exam tomorrow that I need to study for. So, if you don't mind..." It wasn't a question. Before Beatrice had a chance to counter, the waitress was ducking around Sophie and sprinting across the parking lot. A second later and she was gone from sight.
"Well that was pointless,” Stella said. "We didn't get anything."
"Oh, don't be so sure," said Beatrice, a large smile now plastered across her face. "Didn't you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"The accent. Canadian, if I my guess is correct. And I know I am."
"So?" Stella asked, still confused. Sophie most likely was too, but she was far too busy in her own world to throw in her own two cents.
Beatrice continued to smile, far too happy with herself to stop. "Fred spent the last few years in Canada. We were looking for a connection and we found one. The two are acquaintances from the great white north."
And then, as if to prove a point, Beatrice reached into her purse and pulled out her car keys on the very first try. A good omen she thought. She was one step closer to solving this case.
8
Grandma! Thank you!" Beatrice was almost knocked over when her grandson came barging through the house, throwing himself at her with a ferocious hug. "I can't believe it!" He all but screamed in delight. As much as she loved her grandson, he wasn't usually the hugging type. Something was clearly up.
"Ah, no problem," She said, genuinely confused as she hugged him back. Despite her confusion, she was never one to say no to a hug from her grandson. Regardless of the situation, there was always room for one of those.
"But seriously, why? It's not my birthday or anything," he asked, pulling himself from the hug.
That was going to be Beatrice's next question actually. After tracking down the red headed waitress, Beatrice had made her way home with the intention of resting and maybe doing a little baking. She hadn't had a chance since her failed efforts the previous day and was itching to prove that she hadn't lost her touch.
"OK, I have to ask. What’s going on?" She asked. It seemed that the baking would have to wait for another time. The gods were intent on not letting her bake for some reason.
"The motorbike? The one you bought for me? I was just asking why you did it? It doesn't mean I don't want it!" He hurried, looking worried now that she might take away some sort of imaginary gift.
"Motorbike? What are you talking about?"
"OK grandma. Funny, but playing the senile card is a little tacky I think. You're only sixty."
"Grandson, I can say in all honesty that I have no idea what you are talking about," she said, crossing her arms and fixing him with a stare that said she wasn't playing around.
"Really? Because if it wasn't you then someone else really loves me."
Less than a minute later and Beatrice was standing on the driveway, dumbstruck as a brand new motorbike sat there parked; damn near gift wrapped.
"Wha... wha..." Beatrice tried, lost for words. "Was there anything on it? A card? A note?"
"Yeah actually,” her grandson said reaching into his jeans’ pocket. "Why do you think I thought it was from you?"
He handed her the card, which she read... albeit with some difficulty. She didn't have her glasses on and had to hold it back from her face as far as possible. "To my loving Grandson. May you enjoy this gift and all that comes with it," she read.
She stared at the card for some time in confusion, trying to make what she could of the mystery note. She obviously hadn't bought the bike, but whoever did, wanted her grandson to think it was from her, but why?
As she pondered on this, her grandson wandered toward the bike, pulling the keys from his pocket. He shoved them into the ignition and was about to turn the bike on when Beatrice suddenly realized what was going on.
“No!" She screamed, rushing to him and the bike.
"Grandma, what are you --" she tackled him to the ground before he could finish the sentence or turn the bike on. They both went down hard in a flurry of limbs on the grass.
"Don't turn on that bike," she panted, sitting up. Maybe the tackling was a bad idea. She was definitely going to feel it in the morning.
"And why not?" Her grandson rightly asked, rubbing his elbows. She was surprised that she had been able to get him to the ground. He stood six feet tall and had very broad shoulders. There was every chance that she was just going to bounce right off him.
"Because. Something isn't right.'
--
"Well everything looks normal," Detective Rogers confirmed twenty minutes later. In a pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, he had just completed a thorough investigation of the bike and its engine. His once white shirt was now covered in black oil and his once clean hands were just as oily, but Beatrice didn’t mind, she was just glad the bike was safe.
Her obvious fear was that the bike might explode once turned on. There had already been one attempt on her life and chances are that the mystery bike from nowhere was going to be another one.
"Are you sure?" She asked Rogers as he slowly climbed to his knees.
She had called him the moment that she'd gotten to her feet after tackling her grandson to the ground. It was his day off, but he was more than happy to come over and help. More than happy.
"As sure as I can be without completely dismantling the thing,” he confirmed, wiping his dirty hands on his shorts. Beatrice had to admit, he looked darn good in those shorts. Thick muscular legs with only a trace of hair. Her willpower for turning him down was stronger than she realized.
"So, I can take it out?" Her grandson asked hopefully. He had been hopping up and down on the spot the whole time, clearly itching to get his legs wrapped around it.
"I suppose you can, but make sure you --" The grandson let off a scream of delight before jumping on the bike, kicking it into gear and taking off down the road. "...put on a helmet,” Beatrice finished, sighing to herself as she did.
Case of the Passion Fruit Poisoning Page 4