"Boys will be boys," Detective Rogers chuckled as he picked an old rag up from the ground, wiping his brow and hands. "So, you're thinking this was Fred?"
"It has to be." She had filled him in on the details over the phone. She wanted him totally up to speed if he was going to be risking his life for her. Only now that the bike was devoid of traps, she wished that she hadn't let Rogers in on so much. There was a clear bite to the way he said 'Fred.' "Do you want something to drink?" She made her way into the house.
"Beatrice, this is serious. Someone is definitely after you," Detective Rogers said as he followed her inside.
"We don't know that for a fact," she countered as she hurried into the kitchen, pulling out some glasses and a pitcher of homemade lemonade. She was trying to put as positive spin on the whole thing as possible. She didn't want anyone, especially Rogers, trying to look after her. She could do that herself.
Detective Rogers pulled up a seat at the dining room table, allowing for Beatrice to pour him a glass. "I've been thinking. Until I figure out who this guy is then maybe it's best that you stay at home. I can organize protection for you and --"
"Oh no, no, no. I'm not staying at home," she said, waving him off. "Look, I'm sure it's all one big misunderstanding. Once I speak to Fred and clear this whole thing up --"
"Beatrice. You might want to sit down for this." There was something in his voice that made Beatrice pause what she was doing. It was the seriousness of it, the tenor that suggested there was something he had to tell her.
"OK." She said, taking a seat.
Detective Rogers sighed, looking Beatrice in the eyes. "I ran that name you gave me, Fred Baxter, from Wyoming."
"That's the one," she said, not sure what he was getting at.
"You were right about him living in Canada. Montreal actually, but there's one other thing." He reached across the table, taking Beatrice's hand in his own. "Beatrice, I don't know how to tell you this, but... Fred Baxter is dead."
If it wasn't for the seriousness of his face and the way he was squeezing her hand, Beatrice would have laughed in his face, but she didn't. All she could do was stare in shock.
Rogers continued, keeping hold of her hand. "Two years ago, a gas explosion. I'm sorry, Beatrice. I really am."
He may have continued to speak, but if he did, Beatrice didn't hear him. The room spun around her as the gravity of the news slowly sunk in. Fred Baxter, the very same she had spoken to just the previous day, the very one she thought was trying to kill her, was already dead.
What the hell was going on?
9
Usually when Beatrice was upset or confused like this she baked. It was her natural medicine and could cure all. There was one time where she had a broken finger that it was healed from baking a homemade banana cake. She really was that good.
She just didn't have it in her at the moment. She sat in her kitchen, staring at the mixing bowls and ingredients, but just could not bring herself to combine them. She knew that they wanted to be mixed together. She was a firm believer that each ingredient had its own life source, one that yearned and begged to be combined with other ingredients. There they would swirl together, forming into a concoction that was the very definition of life fulfillment. And even though they were screaming and begging, Beatrice just couldn't understand them.
She had to get out of the house and as such made her way to Stella's, just across the street.
She made sure to call Sophie before she left too. If she was going to figure out what to do next she would need the three of them. This was a job for the Cookie Club. The only difference was that there would be no baking this time. Well that’s what she thought anyway.
"The whole thing is not adding up," said Beatrice to Stella and Sophie. They were sitting in Stella's living room, eating Stella's batch of homemade brownies. At least that was what Stella called them, but to Beatrice they were dry, flavorless and an insult to modern baking. She ate them only because she was a good friend and didn't want to upset her best friend. Also, because there was no other choice. Stella refused to shop at Little Miss Baked Goods and as Beatrice was not cooking lately, it was her only option for something sweet.
Beatrice made a mental note to pray to the baking gods later for her lack of ability to bake.
"Well, you have been through a lot of stress these days. Maybe you did imagine it," Stella pointed out as she slid coasters under each of their drinks. The coasters, like everything else in Stella's house, were over-the-top. If it wasn't leopard print, it was bright pink fur and if it wasn't that it was bold colored leather. Just walking into a room was bound to make your head spin.
"No, I know I'm not crazy, I know I saw what I saw and I talked to him twice," Beatrice pointed out.
She had told the two ladies what Detective Rogers had told her the previous day, that Fred was dead. Rather than trying to figure out what this meant for the case, they both naturally assumed she had gone completely crazy.
"I believe you," said Sophie, beaming at her.
"Thanks Sophie," Beatrice said, waiting for the punchline.
"I speak to my two dead dogs every day. Sometimes two times if I put treats out," she concluded, pushing her big glasses up her nose. She then took a huge bite of the brownie, moaning as she did. Poor Sophie, chances are that she thought it tasted better than Beatrice's too.
"I'm not going crazy. The man was in my kitchen. He butchered a batch of cookies! Am I making that up?" Beatrice argued, trying her best to stay calm.
"You mean that batch that you told me you messed up? Three times?" Stella said, sighing as she did.
"That was a different – Oh never mind!" Beatrice huffed, crossing her arms as she did. She wasn’t in the mood to convince her best friends that she wasn't going crazy. They should just believe her. Heck, they were best friends with Sophie. You'd think they'd be used to it by now?
"OK, so assuming that it wasn't the ghost of Fred’s past that tried to kill you. What's your next move?" Stella asked. The condescension was clear in her voice, but Beatrice ignored it. It was a good question, what was next? Really there was only one thing.
"The chef from the café. He's the next one on the list. He might not want me dead, but he might be working for whoever does."
"Assuming it's not Fred." Stella cut in.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Yes, assuming it's not him. We just need to find a time to visit him. Chefs are notoriously cranky and if we catch him when he's busy he probably won't answer any questions." Beatrice ran a catering company and a bakery, so she was more than aware of the shortcomings of chefs.
"Oh, I think we can think of something," said Stella with a smile.
"What do you have in mind, exactly?" Asked Beatrice. She knew that face the moment that Stella made it. Somehow Stella had her fingers stuck everywhere in this town. If you needed a favor or some sort of connection, you went to Stella.
"Oh, I've got my ways," she said with a little chuckle as she took a sip of her drink. She then bit down on her brownie, coughing it back up the second she did. "Oh gawd, this is awful! How are you eating it?"
"I like it," said Sophie, taking another bite of hers. "I'm sorry Beatrice, but I think they're better than yours."
"That's OK Sophie. At the moment I'd almost agree with you." She pushed her brownie across the table to Sophie, who eagerly scooped it up.
She didn't ask Stella how she was going to get them alone with the chef. She really didn't want to know. Everyone had their own bag of tricks. Beatrice only wondered how she would react if someone had asked for her to teach them how to bake her famous treats. So with that logic there was no need to ask Stella how she was going to get the chef to them. Beatrice just had to contend that she was going to and leave it at that.
10
In the end, the means to acquire the chef's personal details were nowhere near as sinister or as enticing as Beatrice had imagined. Sure, there was a little of Stella's patented sexual blackmail, but nothing that wouldn
't make the end cut of a PG-13 film.
It turned out that Stella had at one point in her long life slept with the head of the Culinary Union. Now Beatrice had met the head of the Culinary Union on several occasions and was more than a little surprised by this. He was, as many chefs were, rather rotund in stature. He also sweated profusely, and always smelled like onions. When quizzed on this, Stella simply replied that 'a girl’s got to eat.' And to that Beatrice imagined she had never eaten so well.
Anyway, she gave her ex-lover a call and within minutes had him pouring out every detail of the chef’s personal life. From his age, to his address, right on through to his working hours. They got everything. It was then that Beatrice realized the true power of Stella. It wasn't what she did in the moment, but the lasting effects she had. Beatrice was sure she could have called up a lover from twenty years ago and produced the same results. The woman really was a marvel.
With the chef's hours and address in hand, the three ladies decided that it was time to personally pay him a visit. Beatrice just hoped they caught him in a good mood.
--
The chef's name was Robert Johnson and he lived in quiet suburbia, on a street that looked much like the one that Beatrice resided on. Beatrice noted that he was home when they arrived, as his white van was sitting parked in the driveway. She almost paused when she saw the van, as there was something very familiar about it, but before she had a chance to contemplate what it might be, they were at the front door, knocking on it. A loud crash came from inside and only confirmed what Beatrice already knew; he was home.
"Just a minute," he called out. "Just a... !"
They waited patiently, listening to the crashes and clangs that came from inside. They had obviously caught him during a busy time. Beatrice wondered what on earth he could be doing.
"What?!" Robert all but yelled as he threw open the door.
Beatrice noticed two things right away. The first was how disheveled the chef looked. His face was bright pink, his brow covered in sweat and his nice white apron was stained black from top to bottom. Pair this with the squashed eggplant nose, the thin lips and the pointed ears and Robert was, unfortunately for him, not a very nice character to look at.
The second thing that Beatrice noticed was the smell. It was intoxicating. It drifted through the house and out the door like a siren’s song, enchanting Beatrice's senses, calling to her, begging for her to come and join. She couldn't pinpoint what the smell was exactly, a sweet of some kind, but she knew that it was in trouble.
"Oh, sorry to disturb you, my name is Beatrice. I was wondering if I could borrow a fraction of your time?" She tried to sound as pleasant as possible, sensing that the chef was in a mood.
"What? Who? No. I really can't --" He went to slam the door closed, only for Stella to step forward, holding it with her foot.
"Are you sure you can't spare a second?" Stella asked, batting her eyelashes as she did. Beatrice smirked, now they had him. There were few who could resist Stella when she was on a role, but as odd as it were, Beatrice was forced to eat her words as the chef only shook his head.
"No. I told you ladies that I really can't. Not right now." He went to close the door again, only to have Sophie shove her foot into it. Beatrice cringed, wondering what Sophie was going to say.
"Can I use your bathroom? I'm about to pee myself," she said, pushing her glasses back up. It was said in such earnest and with such intent that Beatrice almost burst out laughing.
The chef looked to Sophie, down to her crotch then back into his house at what Beatrice assumed was the bathroom. "Oh, all right, but be quick." Without opening the door for them he ducked away behind it, hurrying back into the house.
The house was the plainest that Beatrice had ever seen. There wasn't a single piece of decoration in the entire thing. The living room was literally an empty space with a lawn chair propped up in the center. And from what she could see of the dining room, it was just as bare.
"Doesn't entertain much," Stella whispered in Beatrice's ear as Sophie darted off toward the bathroom.
Beatrice was only half listening. Right now, all her focus was on the smell that was wafting through the house. It was a familiar smell, like an old friend she hadn't seen in days. It was sweet and heavenly, designed to make one salivate while causing their stomach to rumble, but it was also a smell of distress. Despite how delightful it was, there was something not quite right. And Beatrice was sure she knew what it was.
The kitchen was just off the side of the living room and when Beatrice entered it she had to stop and stare, for a kitchen like that was made to stare at. She had never seen anything like it. Everything was perfectly organized and laid out. The pots were hanging from the wall, ordered in both size and design. The mixers and utensils all had their own holders, all labelled and ordered for use. The oven was as big as the entire back wall, and the stove could handle eight flames at once. It was the kitchen of her dreams. She instantly realized why the rest of the house was so plain. If she had this kitchen she would never want to leave it.
"You forgot to add the extract," Beatrice said as she entered the kitchen, walking straight up to the chef.
He was currently bent over a large mixing bowl, whipping it furiously as he sniffed its ingredients every few moments. "Wha...?” He said, pausing mid stir.
"Vanilla extract. Half a cap full should do. I think you'll find that will bring out the earthy flavors a little better." If Beatrice had to guess he was currently making wood fired banana bread. It was a difficult sweet to make as the wood firing process tended to overpower the banana flavors. A balance was needed and that balance came from extract.
"How did you know...?" Robert seemed more shocked than anything. Maybe even a little mystified. The fact that this random woman was giving him cooking advice wasn't what was odd. The fact that she was one hundred percent on the money however was.
"May I?" Beatrice asked, holding her hands out for the bowl.
"Sure." He handed the bowl over. He was reluctant at first, but soon relented. Beatrice knew that as a chef he would be able to sense that Beatrice knew what she was doing.
She took to the mixture like a duck to water. She had forgotten how good it felt to bake.
Although she had never been in this kitchen, she could instantly tell where the ingredients were, heading to the cupboard as she pulled out the vanilla extract, adding the perfect amount. All the while stirring fervently, yet with perfect accuracy. She was back and better than ever!
"There you are. That should do it." Beatrice handed the mixture back, trying her best not to look too smug.
"OK, you win. Who are you and what do you want?" The chef asked, putting the mixture down.
"Ah you need to get that in right away. If I was to guess I'd say the oven is perfect right now. Leaving the mixture out could cause it to fall and --"
"Oh yes!" Robert was quick to pull a tray out, slowly and carefully pouring the batter into the pan. "So, I take it you're Bea from 'Bea Cake?'" He asked without looking back. "I should have recognized you."
"Oh, that's OK. I know how frantic a kitchen can get sometimes," she chimed. She could feel him warming up to her. Saving his baking may have just put her over the edge.
"Most definitely," he agreed, putting the bread mixture into the huge oven which Beatrice could now see was indeed wood fired.
Beatrice thought for a moment how she should best approach this. She had two options. One, she could be as sweet as pie and try to talk him into confessing. It was a nicer way of doing things and would work on some, but somehow, she got the sense that it wouldn't be enough. That only left option two. Seek and destroy.
"So, here's the deal," said Beatrice, hands on her hips. "I know that you poisoned that pie. And I know that it was meant for me. Now, you better start talking, and that means names of everyone involved. Otherwise, things are going to get real physical in here."
Sophie had chosen that moment to return and with Stella also in the room,
it made three against one. Stella, in true fashion, even reached across the counter and picked up a rolling pin, beating it into her open hand.
The chef froze where he was, looking from one woman to the next. It wasn't the look that Beatrice was expecting however. There was no fear there, or worry. Just confusion. Pure and utter confusion.
"Ahhh, I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.
"Why should I believe you?" asked Beatrice. "That's exactly what a killer would say."
"Well what would a non-killer say? Cause I want to say that." He took a step back, hands held up in defense. "Look you don't have to believe me, you can check the security cameras. You'll see I wasn't even in the kitchen at the time. I was out back having a smoke."
He was telling the truth, Beatrice could tell. She dug deep, listening for her intuition, but came up short. If he had done it, it would have been screaming.
Case of the Passion Fruit Poisoning Page 5