So sorry gang, been under the weather a little bit. Today I'm putting in one of my favorite shorts. I hope you enjoy it ( for some of you....again.) Thanks for stopping in, I'll yap at you soon.
She was everyone’s adopted Grandma Daisy who always had the smell of fresh baked cookies nestled in the curls of her once-a-week set and washed snow white hair like a sugary halo. Her warm, smooth hands were comforting when you were upset. Although expert and wizardly with a needle and thread, she admitted they were gnarled and clumsy when it came to modern conveniences like pushbutton phones or computers. She always needed a little help. Everyone in town did their share for sweet, little Daisy. They found her to be a patient listener: easy to confide in. It seemed that the whole town consulted Grandma Daisy, basking in her gentle motherly attention and advice.
When she hadn’t been seen about town or in her yard for several days, the gossip alarm shrieked. The sheriff sauntered over to Daisy’s place thinking the worst and discovered he had not gone far enough with his dark, sad thoughts. The house was a wreck; not her usual gingerbread-tidy. Instead of butter and sugar, the air was heavy and metallic. There was too much blood on the floor for a nasty fall. There were drag marks from the largest pool and of course…she was gone. He saw lots of footprints both in and outside the house. Sheriff Jimmy Bosco felt the pressure pinch his skull underneath his hat, which hid a shock of playful, carroty hair. Fix this: for Grandma Daisy. A tense sigh stuttered from his thick lips. He asked the usual questions of the gaggle of quacking spectators beginning with the neighbors: “Did you see or hear anything? Had she been arguing with anyone recently? Did she have any enemies?” His deep voice boomed like cannon fire. They all looked shocked, as if Big Bird had been caught selling crack to Mr. Hooper behind the store. Their replies were all the same: “Grandma Daisy was sweet to everyone! Enemies? OBSURD! How could you suggest such nonsense Sheriff?” “Liars” J.B. thought to himself. He took rolls of pictures of the crime scene. His ice blue eyes chipped at the house hungrily, devouring details. J.B. collected samples, directed others to take castings of footprints and bag and tag all evidence. Known to be a jovial teddy bear in his off time, he was clipped and gruff on the clock. “Shame for the old gal.” he clucked, venturing to the back of the house into her sewing room. The computer awkwardly hummed atop the sewing machine table. J.B. had thought it odd at first, but dismissed it as an effort by Daisy to join the rest of the world and begin Yahooing. Glancing at the icons, he saw “Moneymaker”, a small dollar sign halfway across the screen seemingly in a race to be noticed.
He knew better but proceeded to invade Daisy’s domain. His long strong fingers double clicked and he was obediently shown what Grandma was doing in between embroidering hankies and baking tea cookies. There were bank accounts, jpeg images, and e-mails that weren’t to or from Daisy with large numbers listed next to each sub file like accounting sheets. These files were personal, scandalous and all concerning the pillars of this simple community. A low teakettle whistle bubbled from J. B.’ s lips. “Helllloooooo Grandma!” he muttered and quickly downloaded the files, chunking the disk into an evidence bag. The Grand Poobahs began arriving; fluttering about the place like moths around a porch light, searching for Grandma’s dirt: their dirt.
When the labs began returning results, J.B. was not stunned. Nor did everyone in town popping in; anxiously awaiting answers or speculations surprise him. The town quivered at the thought of who could do such a thing? J.B. saw through all the junk. Sheriff discovered Daisy had scooped more poop than a mutt-owner at the Poochie Park. People didn’t go to Grandma to seek advice or friendly empathy for their woes. They paid her off. They begged for secrecy. They paid; again and again. Those warm soft hands clutched everyone in town, holding on with a greedy grip. The sheriff began to understand the gravity of the situation as he pressed on. Just before he sat down for his press interview with old Tom Jenkins, the head reporter for the paper and pedophile according to Grandma’s records (the photos the sheriff had downloaded were proof enough), J.B. summoned the mayor. The sheriff showed him what he’d found and told him what he knew.
Mayor David Fellini quickly saw the picture painted brightly before him. The Mayor was a problem solver and a delegator. After all, it’s why he had Doc write the prescription that would make the old carp so drowsy. It would save Doc the embarrassment of that gay affair with the pharmacist who would fill the meds and have them delivered to her home. Daisy’s home health aid had little choice but to administer the deadly cocktail and her husband, the gardener, would have to silence the evil gargoyle forever with something heavy since they were both illegal. And quite right that the pastor planted that twisted tree of rotted sinful fruit in the ground away from the honest Christians that met him for drinks and passionate interludes, dumping money guiltily into the church fund that he so spiritually gambled away. But they all stood over her with a collective sigh of relief, a quick repentant prayer and paid homage. They were safe from Grandma Daisy and felt sure that they had paid the old snake for the last time. Mayor Fellini knew what to do. He began to whisper to the sheriff.
The months that followed were chaotic and smooth; well orchestrated by everyone. People reminisced about baked goods made and shared, but the town embraced too the fact that she was gone. Even though the case was unsolved, the whispering stopped and they bought their own damn cookies.When Mayor Jim Bosco finally moved on, he did so a wealthy man. The town had paid him handsomely for his discretion and willingness to overlook. J.B. thanked Grandma Daisy every day for all the different kinds of cookies she had given him.
