The Usual Family Mayhem

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Vigilante justice. People debated the appropriateness of terrible individuals who did terrible things to their supposed loved ones facing retribution outside a formal system. What was fair? What did justice require? No one ever asked the victims those questions. The burden to survive rested on them while the attacker could depend on the prejudices and faults within the system and the fickle demands of society to escape culpability.

Despite that, we had choices. We were sitting in a house, not operating in a courtroom with all its rules and limitations. This was real life, where the answers weren’t so clear. If you felt alone and no one stepped up to help then that bright line between right and wrong could blur.

Maybe that’s why I would have made a terrible lawyer. From my vantage point, the law malfunctioned many times when needed and delivered harsh blows often when unnecessary.

Celia traced her finger over the handle of her mug. “I deleted the star references in our business documents after I realized you’d been in the computer system.”

That explained that. “So much for thinking I’d been stealthy.”

“When Mags turned on her computer she saw that the spreadsheet was open to the column with the stars. She hadn’t been looking under that tab when she stopped working,”

Celia said. “Next time make sure you return everything to its rightful place after you’re done poking around.”

Gram cleared her throat. “There won’t be a next time.”

When I realized Gram was staring at me, I answered the unasked question. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We didn’t know if you figured out what you saw or realized it had significance.”

Celia shrugged. “Erasing the potentially damning evidence seemed wise. You were also in and out of the kitchen, so we locked some items in a cabinet in the pantry until we could dispose of them properly.”

I didn’t want to ask . . . but I really did. “What was in the cabinet?”

Celia seemed to think about how to answer before spitting out an explanation. “It doesn’t matter. It’s gone.”

Gram focused on Jackson. “How did she convince you to get involved in all of this?”

“I was a willing participant.”

That wasn’t quite true, but I loved him for saying it. “Jackson begged me to be cautious and not jump to conclusions.”

Gram sighed. “The conclusion being that we were killing men around town with our pies.”

“Didn’t I get that right? Wait . . .”

I focused on Jackson. “Last chance for you to leave. You can bolt before they answer.”

“I’m in this now.”

“You can go look. We don’t have poison in the pantry.”

Gram acted like her comment closed the subject.

She’d been mighty specific with her words. “That seems smart, but did you and do you keep it anywhere else now?”

Gram didn’t answer me.

Celia skipped right over the poison question as well. “We are part of a network of like-minded women who are concerned about this issue.”

No, that didn’t sound ominous at all. Who knew coming home for a few days of pastries could be so stressful?

“Women around town who have dealt with abuse in their own homes or by watching someone they love struggle.”

Celia kept playing with her mug. Touching it. Turning it. Running her finger down the side of it. “We started with a few women in key places—in the Junior League, at country clubs, tennis clubs and golf clubs, through advocacy groups, and even in government and leadership positions throughout the county.”

Jackson whistled. “That’s a lot of women.”

He wasn’t wrong. It sounded like Gram and Celia didn’t half-ass this. They’d built a community based on the most desperate kind of need.

“It started small but has grown as we reach out to more women. We help a woman and then, if she’s able, she looks out for other women and reports back when she hears anything of concern,”

Celia said.

The strain around Jackson’s eyes grew more pronounced as the weight of each sentence pressed down on him. “How do you keep it a secret?”

“Our network and what we offer are not secrets to the women who need help,”

Gram said.

“This issue touches every economic group, education level, ethnic background, race, and religious affiliation.”

Experience had taught me that. Those books I read confirmed it.

Jackson wore a pained expression. “I don’t know how you trust any of us.”

“It can be hard.”

Gram responded by patting his arm. “The men in my family tree are regrettable creatures but I do realize not all men are terrible.”

“Some are lovely. Some pretend to be lovely. The latter is when problems arise,”

Celia said.

“If a woman is in trouble but early in the process, like she doesn’t know where to go or how to leave, the woman who reached out to her delivers one of our pies along with a recipe, specific information aimed at her circumstances, and a burner phone for confidential communication.”

Gram knew about burner phones? She couldn’t work the remote control for the smart TV, but she engaged in complex clandestine operations. Society tended to dismiss and ignore older women. Big mistake. Never underestimate a woman due to her age.

Every word made me love and respect Gram more. She could have sat back and celebrated her escape. Stayed quiet and healed in private. No one would have blamed her, but she took a different path. She looked at the suffering passed in silence from generation to generation and said enough.

“If a woman is at a different stage, ready to leave or in extreme danger, they get a slightly different pie recipe in their gift basket that leads to advice and information specific to their circumstances,”

Celia explained. “Both cards include password-protected links to files we’ve put together over time.”

Now I got it. The notations. The gift baskets. “A recipe for the funeral pie with custard versus a recipe for the funeral pie without. You use one or the other, depending on an individual woman’s situation. The recipes are a notification system. A way to distribute information.”

Celia nodded. “Yes. We thought it was safe to use the two pie recipes since we don’t actually offer funeral pie as an option. And the nickname for the pie drives home how imperative the help is.”

Jackson looked lost again. “Wait. Is funeral pie the real name for this dessert?”

“Yes. I’ll give you the history later.”

Then I’d remove the phrase “funeral pie” from my internal dictionary, just in case. “So, you don’t actually include poison or that specific pie in this care package? And please feel free to give me a definitive no.”

“We do not deliver poison or funeral pie directly to a woman’s door during an initial contact.”

Celia sounded pretty sure about that.

Gram rushed to clarify. “But we do give ideas on what a woman can do if she can’t escape.”

“So, poison.”

The way they danced around the poison question, taking it off the table then adding it back in again, switched my senses to high alert.

Gram shrugged. “Some men deserve a horrible end.”

“It certainly sounds that way,”

Jackson mumbled under his breath.

I wanted to shout with pride about their ingenuity. I couldn’t, of course, this would have to be a family secret.

“You’re evil geniuses. But are you also in danger?”

I feared both law enforcement involvement and a stray angry husband who might come looking for revenge before he met his fate.

Celia did the most Celia thing possible. She started serving tea. Probably from nerves and the need to keep her hands busy, but she didn’t stop explaining. “We take a lot of precautions. The passwords are on a one-time-use setup. After that we establish a direct link between the woman who needs help and a mentor of sorts who walks her through the process. There are layers of people who perform different tasks—identifying women at risk, meeting with them, delivering the pies, and for us, making the pies—and we never specifically advocate for killing a bad husband.”

Specifically? “Good?”

Celia remained calm through the entire explanation. “That’s a last resort option.”

“Can this last resort option be traced back to you or the business through these packages and recipes?”

Jackson asked like the good lawyer he was.

Gram shook her head. “There’s no poison in the actual pie that’s delivered.”

“It’s the way you say those words that worries me.”

The fact there was, at least for a time, a locked cabinet in the pantry that they had to get rid of suggested there was poison somewhere on the property until very recently.

Gram waved off the concern. “The goal is to let these women know they have support and provide options, even if they’re not ready to reach out for help. Even if they are in fear for their children’s safety. Even if they don’t have access to money. Even if they think they have nowhere to go.”

“There’s also a lockbox they can access when they’re ready,”

Celia explained. “The mentors personally set that up.”

“But, and let me be very clear, poison would be included with every pie delivery if I had my way. Celia insists we be more subtle.”

Good Lord. “Thank you, Celia.”

Jackson focused on the positive. “You save lives.”

They did. They made a difference through their food and their top-secret advocacy.

“No one tried to rescue us. We want better for other women.”

Celia reached out and took Gram’s hand. “Even women we don’t know.”

“Which is why this business takeover push, or outside financing, or whatever the proposal is, needs to stop. We can’t have Harlan—”

Jackson made a weird noise. “Dad?”

“He’s acting as Brock’s surrogate.”

I hated to drop that truth but there it was.

“How in the . . .”

Jackson let out another strangled sound. “Never mind.”

“We can’t have anyone poking around in the business or asking questions. It’s too risky,”

Gram said.

Right. Exactly. Turning this around fell on me. “Then I’ll kill any talk of a deal.”

Celia shook her head. “You’ll lose your job.”

No question. “So? I’m an expert at that.”

“We could refuse any further discussion on a buyout and lie low. Let Harlan and that Mr. California find another hobby.”

Too risky and Gram had to know that. The ladies shouldered enough of a burden without adding more. Then there was the other problem. “I’m not really great at waiting around and seeing how things go.”

Gram snorted.

“No kidding,”

Jackson said with equal drama.

Celia went with a sigh. “We know, honey.”

Not exactly the cheer of support I expected but probably the response I deserved.

“My point is I made the mess. I’ll fix it.”

This one time I wouldn’t screw up.