The Usual Family Mayhem

Chapter Thirty-Two

I seriously thought about hiding in the office for the rest of my life. Take away the glass walls and maybe. With Gram and Celia both staring at me, pinning me down, my options dwindled. I had to go out there. Had to confront them. Had to talk with Jackson. The only question was the proper order for all of those things.

What a mess.

I pretended to work for another five minutes. There was no reason to rush this. The problem—and what an understatement that was—wouldn’t magically resolve itself and go away. Any chance of bolting ended with the funeral pie recipe discovery. Ignoring the situation ceased to be an option, to the extent it ever was.

Almost three o’clock. Hours before I could fill in Jackson and drag him over here. He’d probably leave work and come running if I raised the alarm, but what could he do now that couldn’t wait? The dead husbands weren’t coming back. We had enough problems without that horror.

My stomach growled. I’d worked through lunch. It was only a few minutes to the informal tea and dessert time I’d been enjoying with Celia and Gram most days. The in-between pseudo-meal meant to calm and soothe. Today everything could go to hell if I wasn’t careful.

I opened the door into the main room before my confidence faltered. The strategy of listening more than I talked made sense but Gram could beat most schemes with her bullshit radar. She could tell when someone, namely me, was withholding information. That skill had destroyed many teenage plans before I could launch them.

I was older but so was she. Wiser and more cunning, too. I didn’t stand a chance of getting through the next hour without spilling all my theories.

“Are you hungry?”

Celia called out the question from the middle of the room.

“Always.”

Not a lie but not my main concern at the moment. It was difficult to ignore the potentially poisoned elephant in the room.

Act cool. Do not panic. My brain sent out those commands. Would have been nice if it included a how-to guide.

Celia pointed to the place settings on the small table off to the side used for breaks. “We have some pastries and tea, but if you want—”

“Yes.”

Too quick. The way Celia and Gram looked at me. My response had them mentally switching to high alert.

“Sorry. I blame the missed lunch. The lack of calories makes me grumpy.”

Again, totally true. I operated more effectively on a full stomach.

Gram didn’t say a word in response to my fumbled explanation. She hummed.

That deadly accurate humming.

“What’s wrong?”

I immediately regretted asking the question.

Neither of them responded. They were too busy doing that spooky communicate-without-talking thing they’d perfected.

Acting normal meant licking spatulas and enjoying an unhealthy dose of batter. I glanced around at the bowls and utensils, making sure I picked the right snack. Nothing said I couldn’t enjoy while I stalled. I eyed the delicious, totally unhealthy array of unused icing and batter that begged to be tasted and picked one.

The only bowl in the sink won. I leaned over the counter, balanced on the edge, and swooped in to grab the spoon resting on the side. My feet barely hit the floor again when Celia rushed over.

“No!”

She slapped the spatula out of my hand before it reached my mouth.

The spoon made a clinking sound as it landed. Batter splashed in a spray across the floor and the tips of my sneakers. We all stared at the sugary puddle. It looked like a crime scene but stained with yellow instead of blood.

I liked drama as much as the next gal, but an explanation would be nice. I stopped staring at the lost batter and turned my attention to the two ladies who’d better start talking and soon. “Uh, hello?”

Celia winced. “Sorry, I panicked. You can’t eat that.”

Incorrect. Nothing wrong with eating off the floor. I wouldn’t only because I had some self-control. Not much but some. “Well, not now.”

Gram dropped a towel on the batter spill. Without a hint of hesitation, she used her foot on the cloth to wipe up the mess. “It’s bad for you.”

Because of the poison? They didn’t say it, but I could fill in the blank. Now I wanted to hear how they verbally danced around the truth.

“I eat batter all the time. Germs be damned. I’m not choosy.”

“That is the golden milk cupcake batter,”

Gram explained.

Celia’s wide eyes and pale face didn’t bode well. Panic still thrummed off her. “Right. Golden milk.”

The description sounded kind of delicious. I’d have to lick it off the floor to find out. Any other day, definitely. “Which means what?”

“It’s made with milk mixed with cinnamon and ginger,”

Gram said.

That didn’t sound like a recipe for poison. And the answer didn’t clear up my confusion. The good news was that they didn’t want me sucking down potentially contaminated batter, which I appreciated.

“It also has turmeric and you’ve had an issue with turmeric in the past. An intolerance.”

Celia visibly calmed down. Her jerky movements smoothed out and her eyes returned to their normal size. “Belly discomfort.”

“Last time you ate something with turmeric you threw up for a half hour.”

Thanks, Gram. As if I didn’t know what Celia meant.

Celia continued. “It’s too dangerous to take the risk. You can eat something else.”

They possessed a lot of turmeric information all of a sudden. But they weren’t wrong. The memory of the turmeric chicken and rice dish haunted me. Seven years ago. I came home from college during spring break. One of Gram’s friends had brought over a one-pot meal for us to try. It smelled delicious and had this pretty yellow tint.

So much vomiting. At first I blamed the fact I ate three full plates of food in record time, but no. So, it was true. The turmeric wouldn’t be great for me.

Neither would poison.

All their talk sounded plausible, but they might be saving me and themselves by making up a story. Proving that struck me as impossible now that Gram had mopped up the evidence. I could sneak the spoon out of the kitchen and have the batter remnants tested. The thought floated through my mind then back out again. As if I knew how to test for poison or who was qualified to do it.

“Tea?”

Celia smiled as if the last ten minutes hadn’t happened.

I looked at my batter-stained shoes. Looked at Gram. Tried to believe this was how my day had turned out. Then shrugged. “Sure.”

Time for a showdown. Right after I ate a non-poisoned muffin.