Strawberry Scandal, page 3
Really, I don’t need to be dating Logan for that. The Live Forever Club has broken into the police station several times. They even have a duplicate key in case the sheriff is being particularly tight-lipped.
It pays to be an endearing elderly woman. I swear, they can get away with just about anything in Sweetwater Falls.
“You’re sure it was a murder?” Karen asks, her thin lips pursed in a flat line. Her dentures are perhaps too wide for her thin and wiry face, but somehow the look works on her. “Maybe he had a heart attack.”
I shake my head. “Loads of bruising and dried blood.” I draw a line across my forehead to indicate the obvious damage we witnessed. “Gary,” I say, the name echoing through the mauve living room, which is positively bursting with lace doilies decorating every surface. “That’s the pilot’s name.”
Aunt Winnie fusses with the bag of peas. “Speaking of bruising, how did you manage to hurt your ankle?”
I raise my fists in triumph, even though I’m in pain. “I tripped over the murder weapon. But when I retell the story in my memoir someday, I’m going to claim I discovered it. Tripping over a crowbar? So embarrassing.” Aunt Winnie removes my shoes for me, but before she can put them near the front door, I speak up. “We can throw those away. They’re ruined now anyway.”
Aunt Winnie’s nose wrinkles as she holds the pair aloft. “Please tell me that’s not blood on the toe there.”
“Oh, would that I could claim exactly that. Those are destined for the trash can.” I shake my head at myself. “I can’t believe I sprained my ankle. So clumsy.”
Aunt Winnie disposes of the shoes, then washes her hands, thank goodness.
Marianne holds my hand, standing beside me even when the harsh critic I need to defend myself against is, in fact, me. “It was in the middle of the airfield, hidden in grass that went up past our knees. It was the perfect hiding place for a murder weapon, if you ask me.”
Agnes fixes us with a pensive expression. “You turned the crowbar over to the Hamshire police?”
I nod, but Marianne voices the concern we shared on the ride home. “We did, but the officer on duty didn’t seem all that convinced we’d found the smoking gun.” She grimaces. “Or, the smoking crowbar. Or, you know, the regular crowbar.”
“The murder weapon,” I clarify. “Marianne took it to Officer Barton, but he didn’t seem to care to investigate the spot where it was found.”
Karen frowns. “That’s odd.”
My volume comes out too loud. “Right? That’s what I said. I took a picture of where we found it, but I mean, it’s just grass.” I lean my head back on the arm of the couch. “If only criminals would leave behind a courteous calling card. ‘Good day. I’ve just murdered Gary the Pilot. Here is a list of my benign reasons for doing so, and my current address where you can find me. Signed, The Bad Guy.’ I mean, how hard is that?”
Agnes’ hand fixes to her curvy hip. “Odd place to find a crowbar when there’s a hangar nearby where all such tools should be.”
Marianne folds her arms over her chest. “I know, right? It’s the murder weapon. I’m willing to go to the mat on this one. We solved it.” She motions to me. “Charlotte already named him. The Bad Guy. It’s done. Good thing he left that calling card,” she jokes.
I smirk at my best friend. “Sure, other than the fact that we don’t have motive or the actual murderer pegged, we solved it.”
Marianne waves off my logic. “Other than those pesky details, our work here is done.” Arms akimbo, she looks like a superhero who is bent on solving crimes—one accidentally discovered murder weapon at a time.
Agnes motions between the two of us. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t use the gift certificates?”
I spread out my arms with a hapless shrug. “Kinda hard to do that when the pilot is dead.”
Karen harumphs. “We got all dressed up for it, too.” She motions to her t-shirt, which I didn’t notice the theme of before.
“Top Gun?” I smirk, motioning to the movie poster depiction on her t-shirt and Agnes’. It’s amazing what details can be pushed to the background when you’re in pain.
Aunt Winnie, upon closer inspection, is wearing a flight attendant’s uniform jacket with a little pair of pilot’s wings on the lapel. “We got all dressed up to celebrate your achievement. We even have themed food!” Aunt Winnie shakes her head at the state of the ruined day. “This murder is all kinds of inconvenient. Give me that calling card. I’m going to give ‘The Bad Guy’ a piece of my mind.”
I shoot Aunt Winnie a wry look. “I’m sure that’s exactly what Gary’s friends and family will say at his funeral. Murder is entirely inconvenient. Agreed.” I tilt my head to the side, unsure what cuisine could possibly be considered airline themed. “You went all out. You didn’t have to do that. The gift certificates were thoughtful enough.”
Marianne pats my knee. “Hush, you. I want to hear kind of food is fit for a flying lesson celebration. Now it’s all I can think about.”
I love the Live Forever Club, and all the cheer they bring to the world. It’s the fun they’re known for, yes, but it’s the intentionality they bring to every adventure they plan that makes them special. It’s not just a memory; it’s an event if they’re in charge.
Agnes lifts her chin with pride. “Peanuts for us old gals who remember when they used to serve peanuts on flights. And little bags of gluten-free pretzels for you young’uns, who get allergen-free snacks on your flights. Plus, we have only the best TV dinners, which I feel like is equivalent to the sort of meal that is served on flights these days.”
Marianne and I chuckle through our noses.
Karen holds up her bony finger. “Oh, and weak, watered down coffee. Nothing but the best, most authentic experience for our junior Live Forever Club members. We’ve decided you’re our Executive Level Gold-Standard Flyers. We even made cards.” She pulls out two construction paper rectangles, each with that exact verbiage scrolled in perfect calligraphy.
I don’t know why this strikes me as hilarious, but I let out a laugh so loud that I snort. I cover my mouth to stem the obnoxious sound, but I can’t help it. They just get me. “You three are wonderful. Absolutely Heaven-sent and perfect as is. I love it. I love everything about it, and I love you.”
Aunt Winnie lifts my hand to kiss my palm. “We can move the food in here, so you don’t have to get up.”
I shake my head. “But we didn’t fly anywhere. We can’t celebrate if we didn’t actually do it.”
Agnes’ tone takes on a matronly edge. “You found a dead body. The least we can do is get you weak coffee and airplane food.”
“Bagged pretzels? They’re nice and stale tasting,” Aunt Winnie offers, which sets me off laughing again.
Marianne helps Agnes move the food into the mauve-lined living room, setting us up on the couch and loveseat. Aunt Winnie turns on James Stewart’s movie No Highway in the Sky while we munch on our TV dinners and debate whether or not we’re allowed to refer to one of our favorite actors as “James” or “Jimmy”. It’s kind of the best life ever.
My vote is Jimmy. I like to hope he was the kind of man who would have enjoyed sitting with us silly broads on a sunny afternoon, watching old movies and shouting at the television what we think the characters should do next.
James or Jimmy, I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to scoop up this heaping heartful of wholesome small-town charm and savor it over the course of many lifetimes.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about how the pilot looked when I found him, and what it might mean for the city of Hamshire that the killer is still on the loose.
5
BETTY’S ADVENTURES
Normally when I am in my happy place, there is dancing to accompany the scent of sugar in the air. Today, however, there is no dancing, even though the oldies station is doing its best to liven up the mood. Unfortunately, not even The Temptations can coax me out of my funk, which is how you know things are dire.
Betty tsks me when I drop my spatula and lean to pick it up. Usually I have buttercream fingers, but today I’m all butter fingers, dropping every little thing. “I’ll get that! Don’t you dare.” The senior citizen woman shows me up by bending seamlessly and retrieving the spatula. Then she snatches a rag and wipes up the batter on the concrete floor. To me, the floor of my bakery usually looks like pure sparkling silver, rather than the dull gray it registers as in my mind today.
I grumble what feels like my tenth “thanks” of the workday to Betty, since I keep dropping things and she is right there every time to save the day. I am frustrated that the doctor fitted me with the crutch, which feels permanently fused to my left armpit. I’m not supposed to have the thing touching my armpit when I walk, but I keep forgetting, and accidentally allow my shoulders to slump. Thus, my posture reflects my dumpy mood.
Betty pushes back her white-blonde hair, fixing me with an understanding smile as she wipes her hands off on her orange track suit. “It’s hard to be stuck with a sprained ankle. I thought the doctor said you were supposed to stay off it for a week. You know I can handle things in here for a week while you rest.”
I frown at her—a crime I never have cause to commit. “Have you been talking to Aunt Winnie? Because I know I haven’t been telling people that information.”
Betty pinches my cheek and points to the sole chair in the kitchen. “She called me, yes. She called Frank, in case you decided to stop by his newsstand. She also called Rip to make sure you didn’t volunteer for the strawberry festival. I’m pretty sure she told everyone, so if you thought you’d be able to skirt your doctor’s orders, you clearly underestimated Winifred’s reach. She is nothing if not persistent.”
I take the seat with a muffled groan as I gnaw on my lower lip. “Sprained ankle or not, I still have orders to fill. I can’t exactly shut down the Bravery Bakery while I sit around doing nothing for days on end. I’m not putting the operation of an entire business on your shoulders. This was supposed to be part-time work for you. That’s not fair for me to dump everything on you like that.” I cross my arms, fully aware that I am pouting like a child. “Stinking crowbar in the stinking field. Stinking doctor’s orders.”
Betty recently retired from thirty years spent working as an accountant. When her hazel eyes and knack for pumping up new businesses with her natural enthusiasm and organization met with my newly founded and overbooked Bravery Bakery, it was a match made in Sugar Heaven.
Business is booming, which would be a thing to celebrate if I could actually pull my weight. Whisking egg whites while leaning on a crutch is slowing me down considerably. Being benched is the pits.
Betty slides my notebook and pencil across the counter toward me. She regards me with patience only possessed by the wisest of saints when forced to deal with petulant people like me. “Perhaps you should do some noodling about the cupcake flavor of the month. You’ve gotten eight dozen upcoming orders placed for the flavor of the month, which you haven’t named yet. Plus, you want to put some of the new cupcakes in the assorted orders.”
I motion to my ankle that the doctor fitted with a stinking boot. After several days of sweating in the summer heat through this thing, I can safely call it my stinking boot. How animals and small children don’t run away, holding their noses when they smell my foot coming, I’ll never know. “Can I blame my lack of creativity on a busted ankle? I feel like that’s legitimate.”
Betty chortles at my pouting and pats the top of my head, mussing my ponytail of blonde curls. “You’ll think of something delightful. You always do.”
I slump in the seat. “I’m uninspired this week. This injury has shown me that all my creativity was being stored in my ankle. Now that it’s out of commission, so am I.” I motion to my head. “My mind is filled with nothing but the crime scene and the murder weapon. It would be one thing if the murder happened in Sweetwater Falls. I could ask Logan for details on the newest development. But since the murder took place in Hamshire, I have no idea if they’ve found the murderer or not. It’s like an undone puzzle, only the stakes are higher. More innocent lives will meet their end if the murderer is not found.”
Betty leans against the counter, folding her arms over her midsection. She is utterly precious with a smear of fudge frosting arced across her forehead. “That sounds daunting. But you’re not completely without a clue, right? Logan has friends at the Hamshire police department.”
I perk up. “I didn’t realize that.”
Betty reaches for cupcake liners to sort them into the pans. “Logan’s been out of town this past week for training. When does he get back?”
“Tonight,” I tell her. “I suppose I could ask him to poke around for me and find out where they’re at with the case.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Betty clasps her hands under her chin. “Nothing more romantic than talking about murder on a date after not seeing each other for a week. Ah, young love.” She makes me laugh when she pretends to wipe a tear from her eye with one of the cupcake liners.
I blink when the streak of fudge frosting under Betty’s hairline starts to remind me of the blood streaked across Gary’s forehead. “Message received. Maybe I’m a little too stuck in my head.”
I don’t even care that she’s smudging chocolate frosting on my face when she leans in to cup my cheeks, fixing me with her earnest stare. “What was the point of going to those flying lessons?” she asks me. Her eyes are earnest that I find a way to snap out of my funk.
My shoulders lower in submission to her wisdom. “Not to solve a murder. The point was to learn how to fly a plane.”
Betty shakes her head, fixing me with kindness that beams from bright hazel eyes. Her voice is as gentle as the stroke of her thumb across my cheek. “No, my love. The point was to live in the moment. A glorious moment that’s bigger than a normal day. The point was to live. To feel alive because you’re challenging death itself.” She fixes the writing utensil in my grip as if arming me for a valiant battle. “You get to choose right now whether or not the lesson lives on, if it rings true for you.”
Despite my foul disposition, I know how lucky I am to have Betty in my life. It’s one thing to have a baking assistant who is as capable and competent as she is, but to also be loved so sweetly and wholly by her is just the hug my heart needs. My lashes sweep shut as serenity shushes my need to make sense of the things I cannot solve or control. A deep breath fills my lungs, resuscitating parts of me that have been in slumber for the past week.
“That’s better,” Betty tells me, her voice soft as her hands cradle my face. “Now if you’d learned to fly that plane, where in your imagination would you like to have gone? Where would you visit, and what would you bring back to us?”
I challenge her question with a question. “What places have you been? I’m not much of a traveler. Though, I’m not sure if that’s because I never made it happen, or if it’s not my thing. I’m more of a homebody.”
Betty shrugs. “You can be both, choosing whichever one suits you in the moment.” Her eyes mist over with nostalgia. “I’ve been to all fifty states. Can you believe that? I’ve been to Canada and Mexico. I’ve stayed a week in Estonia trying to find the perfect cup of coffee. Two weeks in Greenland, watching my favorite dog sledding team compete. A week in Spain, spent mostly eating the most deliciously rich and flavorful food.” A twinkle sparks in her demeanor. “I’m planning a trip to Greece right now.”
My jaw drops. I should ask everyone I meet this question. Betty is a beautiful ray of sunshine on any given cloudy day, but listening to her wax poetic about her travels makes me want to have been there right alongside her, dedicating an entire week to locating the perfect cup of coffee.
“Why did you choose Greece for your next adventure?” I ask, trying to picture Betty and her husband Rip on the seaside, eating olives and dancing well into the night.
Betty shrugs. “I’ve never been there. Thought it was time. Rip is Greek on his mother’s side. Plus, I want to wear a bikini on the black sands of Santorini,” she rhymes, then strikes a model pose. “Doesn’t that sound like pure bliss?”
I have to admit that it does. “I want to see every single picture from your vacation. When are you going?”
Betty takes up the bowl of fudge frosting and starts slapping it with a spatula into a piping bag. “Oh, I don’t know if I am. I like planning these things. Sometimes they happen, sometimes they don’t. Either way, it’s nice to dream.” She nods toward the notebook upon which I have yet to scribble a single idea. “Start your brainstorming. One side for the cupcake flavor, and the other for a vacation that sounds like a fun adventure.”
The blank page mocks me for my lack of vision and ambition. Still, my pen scribbles a few ideas, knowing I’m not committing to anything just yet.
I think about places that sound like fun to learn more about, and commit myself only to that before I focus on the other side of the page. Betty is right; it’s fun to dream.
Anything chocolate sounds unappetizing today. It’s hot enough outside to melt a popsicle clean off the stick before you can finish the thing.
“Where is the strawberry festival going to be?” I ask conversationally while Betty pipes the fudge frosting on the cooled cupcakes. They’re lined across the counter like sweet little soldiers, ready for their grand decorations.
Betty doesn’t miss a beat, piping perfectly while she replies. “We need a big area for the events, so it’s going to be on the field behind the school.”
“Events?”
“I keep forgetting you’re still new here. You’ve never been to the strawberry festival, have you?” When I shake my head, she fills me in on what I assumed would be a party for strawberries, where people come and, I’m not sure, buy strawberries? “There’s a strawberry bake-off, though the food doesn’t have to be baked to enter. Anything strawberry-themed, really. I entered a strawberry balsamic glaze last year. Didn’t win, but it was delicious drizzled over my poundcake.”
