“Imagine,” Brandon said in wonder, “being so bitter about a job you could actually kill someone over it.”
Genevieve nodded. “I mean, I love Sweet Dreams with all my heart, but even if Tyler does get my job, I wouldn’t lure him to my house and stick a knife in him.”
They were silent for a moment, imagining that scenario, and then they looked at each other and began to laugh hysterically. Butterscotch shot each of them an uncertain glance and crept quietly away.
“Think about the strength of that woman though! Hauling a body like that,” Brandon mused.
Genevieve split the last piece of waffle, popped her share into her mouth, and handed Brandon the plate back. “I believe it,” she said, shivering as she remembered being alone in room 209 with her. “She looked very strong, and completely unhinged.”
“We seem to have a problem with violent teachers at Pinewood,” Brandon said. “Maybe Ms. Pierce and Mr. Garcia went through the same certification program.” Genevieve snorted.
Brandon rose to snap off the space heater. “So, what was the detective like?” he asked.
She swallowed, her throat going dry at the memory of Detective Christie walking onto the scene. The police had been kind, comforting even, ushering Genevieve into the tiny kitchen as the paramedics swarmed around Ms. Pierce’s body. Someone had set a cup of tea in front of her, which she’d politely sipped while fighting the urge to throw up. They’d asked her what she’d been doing there, of course, and she’d answered as best she could, explaining how she’d been concerned for Miss Love, describing the threat she’d overheard, the phone-snatching incident, and how Ms. Pierce had been well known for her frightful bursts of temper and general dislike for the kids she taught.
The officers had listened without interrupting, nodding sympathetically, occasionally scribbling notes in their pads. Genevieve did not tell them about how she’d known where Ms. Pierce lived and thankfully, no one asked. After a while, comforted by the scent of the tea and how it warmed her from the inside out, she could almost close her eyes and pretend she was sitting in Hidden Treasures.
And then Detective Christie had shown up. Genevieve noticed her, the way she first noticed everyone, by the way she was dressed—tailored black slacks, a navy blue shirt, and a blazer that didn’t quite hide the wide belt and holster slung around her hips. The detective had shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back into a low, no-nonsense ponytail, and a deep line between her brows. The brief glimpse Genevieve had of her as she strode silently into the back bedroom burned a lasting impression; Detective Christie had a memorable, magnetic presence. What Genevieve first admired would quickly become what she resented when the detective came to question her fifteen minutes later. By then, Genevieve’s tea had grown cold.
“Miss Winterland,” the detective said crisply, extending a hand and shaking Genevieve’s firmly. “Detective Christie. I understand you were already inside when Mr. Mattison arrived. Want to tell me about that?”
Genevieve stared into the sharply intelligent blue eyes and knew she would have to be careful. “I... I’ve already explained everything to the officers.”
“Then it should be easy telling your story a second time.”
“My father’s on his way,” Genevieve said in a firmer voice. “He doesn’t want me answering any more questions without him here. I’m seventeen,” she added.
“A student,” the detective said, nodding thoughtfully. “How curious you happened to know where Ms. Pierce lived. I don’t get the impression that she was in the habit of giving out her home address to students.”
Genevieve bristled. “Pinewood’s a small town,” she challenged.
“Indeed.” The detective sat slowly in the chair across from Genevieve and smiled without warmth.
Genevieve stood abruptly. “Am I in trouble then? Is that what you’re implying? Because it seems to me you have bigger issues than worrying about a concerned citizen checking on a missing old woman with obvious mental health problems. Like how that woman committed a murder, where the missing body is, and finding a home for an orphaned cat.”
Detective Christie’s eyebrows, which had been gradually rising in amusement, now suddenly furrowed. “Cat?”
“Yes. Surely you noticed the framed photos on the wall? Ms. Pierce left behind a cat, and it was the cat’s cries that alerted me that something was wrong in the bedroom. Otherwise, I… I wouldn’t have gone... seen...” Genevieve faltered, and the detective seemed to soften a little. She looked toward the hallway, appearing deep in thought, and then, as if she’d made a decision about something, she rose and said briskly, “We’ll take care of the cat, Miss Winterland. I’m sorry for what you experienced here tonight, but don’t be surprised if I’m in touch very soon. You’re free to go.”
“So,” Genevieve finished as she and Brandon headed for school, “that’s what she was like. Awful.”
“Awfully accusatory, anyway,” Brandon agreed. “She sounds scary. But it’s cool she likes cats.”
Genevieve turned into the parking lot. “I guess,” she said, not ready to think generously about the detective, even if she was an animal lover. “At least it gave her something else to think about instead of trying to intimidate me.”
Brandon snorted as they grabbed their backpacks out of the car. “She must have realized she wouldn’t get far with that strategy.”
The morning passed by in a blur. In the halls, students buzzed with rumors, all mere fragments of the truth, which only Genevieve, Brandon, and Principal Mattison knew. Carly Jamison cornered Genevieve outside Economics, her eyes wide. “Did you hear about Ms. Pierce?”
Genevieve feigned interest. “What about her?”
“Oh my god, she doesn’t know,” Carly whispered loudly to Samanta Glenn, who looked up from her phone long enough to roll her eyes. Carly leaned in close to Genevieve’s ear, a cloud of watermelon bubble gum and hair spray. “She died last night, just dropped dead in her home.”
Genevieve stared at her, hearing the sound of Ms. Pierce’s body thumping to the ground. She’s not wrong, she thought, and then felt guilty for thinking it. Carly, misinterpreting Genevieve’s stricken expression, nodded gravely.
By afternoon, rumors had grown to include the link between Ms. Pierce and the disappearance of Miss Love, and by the next day those rumors had somehow been substantiated and the probability of Miss Love’s grim fate discovered. The buzz of the day before had turned into a thunder of excitement, outrage, disbelief, and grief. Students who’d expressed sympathy for the late Ms. Pierce now threw themselves fully into trash-talking the late substitute.
“I always knew she was crazy!”
“You could tell she had it in her.”
“She was so jealous of Miss Love. That was obvious.”
Genevieve kept her head down, mourning Miss Love in private and on her long morning runs. Even at Sweet Dreams she would often catch herself on autopilot, dishing desserts for her favorite customers with less enthusiasm than usual, drifting out of the present moment to which she was usually tethered. Frittering away entire afternoons on rumination and contemplation was a Brandon thing.
Still, knowing there had been a murderer in their midst was awfully distracting. Knowing that the day she naively confronted Ms. Pierce, alone, in her classroom, the substitute had already been planning the murder of Miss Love, was even worse. For a few uncomfortable minutes one evening, Genevieve considered whether her antagonizing of Ms. Pierce had contributed to the woman snapping, but she quickly shook off the thought. She remembered clearly the substitute sneering You won’t be seeing her again and reassured herself that she was in no way culpable—by that point the woman’s mind had been made up. Miss Love had already gone missing. And anyway, there was nothing to be done about it now.
On Saturday, when it was time to change the flavor of the week, Genevieve opted for one she’d already debuted months ago. Bananaless Banana Split had never really taken off, but she couldn’t quite muster up the imagination to produce something new. She mixed the batches of custard, ripe bananas, and strawberry and chocolate flavors with uncharacteristic quietness while Tyler served customers out front.
Twice her broody coworker ducked into the kitchen to answer his phone, both times obviously agitated by the calls. “I told you not to call me here,” he hissed, and, “I can’t talk right now.” Normally she would be curious, but Tyler’s mysterious behavior and ominous one-sided conversations did little to rouse her. Genevieve ignored it all, keeping to herself, pounding the pavement in the mornings, and skimming the newspaper to see if Miss Love’s body had been found. She knew they had begun the gruesome process of dragging Valentine Lake.
At school, where they were obviously short on subs, Principal Mattison was still teaching their Econ class. On Monday he fumbled through the lecture and eventually just assigned them quiet reading while he sat at the desk, shuffling through papers Genevieve was sure he wasn’t actually reading. He looked as if he’d aged ten years. They carefully avoided looking at each other.
And then, that night at Sweet Dreams, Genevieve snapped out of it. Tyler was scheduled off, and as she walked in, hearing the chiming of the bells and seeing the bright, cheery parlour, she felt a weight lift off her. She crossed the room with a bounce in her step, resolving to enjoy her work and her customers and to stop feeling sorry for herself. She was Genevieve Winterland, business woman in training, future entrepreneur, and it was her job to make the world a little bit brighter with ice cream.
Genevieve started by scooping herself a triple cone of Bananaless Banana Split.
