Case of the Passion Fruit Poisoning Read online

  "Seduce and destroy, right?" Beatrice said half-jokingly.

  "Let's hope so."

  Just then there was a knock at the door. Stella rushed across the room, opening it to reveal Detective Rogers. He didn’t even wait, all but storming into the room.

  "What's this I hear about you going on a date with Fred Baxter!?" He yelled. His face was red and it looked like he had been running. There was every chance that he had sprinted up the driveway at least. And in his tight chinos, button down shirt and leather jacket, it must have left him hot and bothered.

  "Who told you?" Beatrice asked, instantly turning on Stella and Sophie.

  "It doesn't matter who, what matters is..." He trailed off for a second as his eyes fell on Sophie, still squatting over the litter box. Shaking his head, he carried on, walking up to Beatrice now. "The man is clearly unhinged! You can't be alone with him."

  "Oh," said Beatrice, wry smile on her face. "Is that why you don't want me going on the date?"

  He paused for a moment, looking put out by the question. This was only confirmed by the way he stuttered through his response. "Yes... yes of course... I just don't... I don't want you walking into unnecessary danger. That's all."

  "It's the only way," Beatrice said, checking her lipstick in the mirror.

  "It's not. Listen. I did some digging into that waitress you were telling me about. Turns out her and the chef were lovers! That's right, they were actually dating! Now that we know that we can go back and --"

  "So," Beatrice dismissed. She walked across the room and closed the front door that Stella had left open.

  "So?" Detective Rogers asked, confused. He had obviously thought his little bomb drop would have more of an effect.

  "All that means is that they were both working for Fred. He's still the priority here. I get him to confess and those two will come crumbling after."

  She had to admit that it was indeed interesting that the waitress and chef were dating and if she didn't already have a solid lead than it might be worth considering. All it meant now was that they were both working for Fred, rather than just the one.

  Significant, sure, but not enough to stop this date.

  "So, what's the plan then? Please tell me that," Rogers asked. He was visibly shaking. Beatrice actually found it quite cute. She knew that his anger was just there to mask his jealousy, because at the end of the day she was going on a date with someone that wasn't him. Plus, she looked so good in that dress there was no way he wasn't jealous.

  "Stella," Beatrice said, indicating to her best friend, still standing behind the detective.

  Stella walked across the room, pulling a small device from her pocket and handing it to Beatrice.

  "What's that?" He asked, confused.

  "It's a recording device. I get him to confess, flee the scene and that's that." She felt proud of herself for her plan.

  The thing that Beatrice had found about plan making was that it was always best to keep them simple. Too often the goal of the plan got lost in the unnecessary thoughts. People got lost or confused and soon the plan was out the window, leaving the people involved high and dry. As such, Beatrice chose a simple yet effective strategy. She was going to get the confession, excuse herself to the bathroom and never come back.

  "Well no, not as simple as that," the detective said. "How do you plan on fleeing? He could steal your keys. He could block the door. He could... He could..." The detective was lost for words, but obviously still intent on making them as his mouth moved, but nothing came out.

  "Please Steven, give me some credit. I'm not going alone. The girls are going to follow and park just down the road. If I'm not out in thirty minutes they're going to come charging in."

  Detective Rogers looked from Sophie in the litter box to Stella who was now admiring herself in the full-length mirror. He didn't look convinced of the sturdiness of the plan. "I'm coming."

  "You really don't need --"

  "I'm coming. Simple as that. If things get physical you could use me."

  She had to admit that he did have a point. In the past, the three girls had tried to use their physical nature to get what they wanted and too often they had fallen short. Unfortunately, the three women, even being armed, just weren't as terrifying as she would have liked for them to be. And although she was sure that Rogers just wanted to come to keep an eye on her, the truth was that they could use his help.

  "OK," she relented. "You can come, but you're sticking to the plan."

  "Cross my heart," he said, drawing an imaginary cross over his heart. "Now, where is this Romeo taking you?" He said it with a scathing bite that confirmed for Beatrice the real reason he wanted to come.

  "Ah, that. Well, you're not going to like it."

  And true to her word, Detective Rogers didn't. Not one little bit.

  14

  I don't like this. I don't like this one bit," Detective Rogers muttered when he spotted the destination for Beatrice and Fred's date.

  "Oh, calm down will you? It's going to be fine," Beatrice scolded. "Now, how do I look?" She asked Stella.

  "Better than a freshly baked batch of muffins," Stella responded.

  "That's what I was hoping to hear," Beatrice said with a sly smile. She then took a deep breath, made sure the recording device was tucked away nice and firmly, and climbed out from the back seat of the car. Once out of the car she got her balance, something that was a little harder than she would have liked as she was wearing heels, and headed towards the date.

  Detective Rogers had every right to be worried about the location of said date. As far as 'easy to flee,' scenarios went, this one was about as far from ideal as possible. The date was on a private yacht, down the end of the pier and about as far away from prying eyes as a date could be.

  When Fred had told Beatrice that the date would be on a yacht, she had been shocked. This shock was only doubled when he informed her that he actually owned the yacht. That she had not been expecting.

  The thing about Fred was that he had never been much of a go getter, in any sense of the term. Where her husband was so successful and tenacious in everything he did, Fred was the complete opposite. When Beatrice had gotten married, Fred at the time was broke, with zero prospects and no plans for the future. That was actually a very large reason behind her choosing her husband over him (amongst other things).

  When she saw the yacht, she couldn't help but be slightly impressed. It seemed that Fred had somehow managed to turn his life around. The yacht itself was beautiful balancing on the water. At what Beatrice guessed to be about thirty feet in length, it was a double story, had a spa bath on the deck and a bar built into the furnishings. And that was just on the outside. She could only imagine what the inside held.

  "Hello down there," Fred called from the deck. He was wearing a complete yacht-man's gear; captain's hat, blue dinner jacket and white, chino pants. Beatrice found the getup odd, but chose not to say anything about it. He had asked her to dress appropriately and maybe this was what he meant. "Come on up, I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised."

  Pleasantly surprised was perhaps only a slight understatement. Beatrice had to stop herself from gasping when she entered the grand yacht. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't what she found. The inside had been converted to a large, private restaurant type fair. The floor was white marble, the drapes that hung to all the walls were a dark purple velvet and a crystal chandelier even dangled from the roof. And at the center of the room was a single, round table. It too was set to perfection; crystal glassware, sparkling cutlery, and expensive china.

  "Please, take a seat," Fred motioned for her to follow him to the small table in the center of the room. Which she did of course, politely taking the seat as he pulled it out for her.

  "Fred, this is all – Oh really?" Two waiters suddenly appeared from behind one of the draped pieces of velvet. They wore tuxedos with matching white gloves. One carried champagne, the other a plate of hors
d’oeuvres. As the plate was laid down, the drinks were poured. And then the two waiters disappeared.

  "I hope it isn't too much?" He asked, smiling gleefully.

  "Maybe just a touch." She didn't want to tell him what she was really thinking. That this whole thing was bordering on ridiculous. He was crazy after all, best stay on his good side.

  "You're just so perfect Beatrice. You always have been. You deserve the best, and nothing short of that. I'm just glad that now, finally, I'm able to give that to you." He picked up his glass of champagne, holding it in a toast. She did the same, taking a sip.

  The whole thing was rather perplexing. For someone who had tried to kill her only three days ago, he was awfully interested in getting on her good side. It was time for Beatrice to start digging.

  "I have to say Fred, you've changed quite a bit since I last saw you. Unemployed. Living in your friend's basement. Tell me, how does Fred Baxter go from that to yacht owner?" She leant forward, batting her eyes as she did. The idea here was of course to lure him in, like a fat kid to a bunch of brownies.

  "A lot has changed since then Beatrice, and I want you to see that. First, it's no longer Fred Baxter."

  "No?" She asked, acting surprised.

  "That right. I shed that name like old skin. It's Fred Xavier now. A name to match the man." He leant back in his chair with an air of superiority, as if the simple act of changing his name was all that needed to be done to transform him from the bumbling slob she once knew to the sophisticated gentleman that sat before her.

  "Oh, how interesting," Beatrice beamed, careful not to drink the champagne. Instead she held it to her mouth, acting as if she were taking a sip. "So, I'm dying to know, how exactly did you come by all this wealth. I'm just so impressed."

  "I really shouldn't," he said, acting aloof. His eyes darted around the room, as if he had a big secret.

  "Come now, I won't tell." She battered her eyes again, even going so far as to twirl a string of her hair with her fingers. Beatrice may have been out of the game for a while, but she hadn't forgotten the tricks. And besides, it was so clear that Fred desperately wanted to tell her.

  "OK, I will, but promise you will keep it to yourself. If you don't, I could get in just a tinsy bit of trouble."

  "Cross my heart," Beatrice said.

  "OK. Well that reason that I changed my name was that I sort of had to. A couple of years ago I kind of... sort of faked my own death."

  Beatrice did not know what to say. She sat there, dumbstruck, unable to comprehend what he had just told her. On the surface, it made sense. That would explain why he was presumed dead, but the real question was why? And what did this have to do with wanting her dead?

  If Fred had noticed her shocked disposition, he didn't give any indication as he carried on talking. It was clear that he was rather proud of himself and wanted to brag.

  "You see, my life insurance claim was huge. Huge! And I got to thinking, what's the point on having life insurance if you have no one to benefit from it. So, I faked my death, took the money and, well you can figure out the rest." He indicated to the boat, a very proud smile on his face.

  "But why?" Beatrice asked, genuinely curious. Sure, the money was a natural lure, but the risks that came with it were huge. Prison for one.

  To this question, Fred became serious for the first time, his face hardening, his eyes boring into Beatrice. "Isn't it obvious Bea? Because of you. I've been in love with you since the day we met. I believe sometimes that I loved you before that even, if that's possible. When you chose my brother over me, it near drove me crazy, but then, when I heard that he died, I saw it as my second chance. You wouldn't take me as a poor man. I thought that, that maybe you would take me as a rich one?"

  Beatrice hadn't even noticed that during this little speech he had reached out and taken her hands in his, giving them a soft squeeze. She hadn't noticed because she was so dumbstruck. Nothing was making any sense. He had tried to kill her, but wanted her to himself? He wanted her dead, yet faked his own death to be with her? What was going on? Beatrice knew that the only way to get to the bottom of this was to flat out ask. No matter how dangerous that might be.

  “So, does that mean that you aren’t trying to murder me?” She asked, not sure how she should phrase such a question, but just went with honesty, which she always believed won over.

  “What?” He asked back. Not in shock or outrage, but in general confusion. It occurred to Beatrice that maybe playing coy with Fred wasn’t the best tact. He was never known for his smarts.

  “Kill me, Fred,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you’re so intent on being with me, does that mean you haven’t been trying to kill me all this time?”

  The shock was real this time as he leaned back in his chair, a look of pure horror on his face. She had never seen such a put-out disposition. It would be like her having admitted that she enjoyed clubbing baby seals. “No!” he finally got out. “How could you… how could you… how could you even say such a thing?”

  Beatrice sighed to herself. It was in part a sigh of relief, she now knew for a fact that Fred wasn’t the killer, but it was also one of disappointment. She was back to square one. “Oh, don’t take it so personally, Fred. It’s just with the passion fruit pie the other day, and the motorbike and then you showing up from --”

  “Ah...” Fred said, looking a little embarrassed. “So, your grandson got the bike then?”

  “That was you!” She all but screamed. What on earth was he thinking?

  “I just wanted to show you that I could buy you and yours nice things. I told you Beatrice, all I’ve ever wanted was to be by your side. That’s all.” The sincerity was there, loud and clear. He reached forward again, taking her hand. Beatrice, not knowing what to do, let him.

  She again sighed to herself. It was part because of Fred’s love-stricken face. He wasn’t a killer, just a terrible romantic. It was part due to the fact that she was going to have to start all over again. And perhaps worst of all, it was because she was now stuck in this date until it was no longer considered rude to go home. How many hours that was going to be? Beatrice had no idea.

  15

  It was an old-fashioned brainstorming session. There were pots of boiling hot coffee, plates full of cakes and other delicious treats, a whiteboard propped up in the middle of the room and three overcharged brains, hungry for answers. Well, as Beatrice looked at her two counterparts, Stella and Sophie, she decided that between the three of them maybe there was a brain and a half; two on a good day, but it was better than nothing. Together, the three ladies could solve anything.

  The date with Fred lasted exactly two hours and twelve minutes. After that, Beatrice felt that she could excuse herself without seeming rude. The man had faked his death for her after all, it was the least she could do. To soften the blow, she promised him that she’d call within a day or so; although as she made the promise she had to wonder how she was going to get out of that.

  After the date, she confided in the girls and Detective Rogers what Fred had told her and how he couldn’t be the killer. Once their shock wore off, they all slowly came to realize the same thing that she had, that they were back at the beginning.

  As such, Beatrice called an emergency meeting of the Cookie Club. They would stay up all night if they had to. Detective Rogers, despite his protests, wasn’t invited. Beatrice didn’t need to deal with yet another man fawning over her. Not tonight.

  Unfortunately, despite the set up that they had in Beatrice’s living room, and despite all their brain power pouring into the problem at hand, none of the ladies could come up with an answer. The question being, ‘who would want to kill Beatrice?’

  “Maybe it’s an old student from school?” Stella suggested. Even in the moment she was overdressed. Wearing a stunning blue dress and pearl necklace, it was as if she thought her dream man might pop over any second. Best be ready for when it happens.

  “No, no,” Beatrice sighed, pointing up at the white
board where ‘ex-student,’ had been crossed out. “Detective Rogers had already chased that possibility down. I hate to sound smug, but I was a pretty good teacher. Good enough that none of my students would want to kill me.”

  “Just bed you,” smirked Stella.

  Beatrice ignored the jibe, trying not to smirk herself. “And we’ve gone over the chances of an annoyed client too,” she continued, indicating to the board. There was a small chance that maybe Beatrice had ruined an order through her catering service and that that person wanted revenge, but a quick look through reviews and receipts soon proved that to not be the case.

  “I once tried to kill the man living in my cupboard,” Sophie piped up. She was, as of that moment, standing by Buzz’s birdcage, imitating every action the bird made. “He was spying on me and wouldn’t stop. Maybe that’s why someone is trying to kill you?”