Chapter Ten

“More butter,” Gran instructed.

I added butter and stirred the batter. “We’re seeing the doctor at nine in the morning,” I reminded her.

“I know. I made an appointment with the lawyer at eleven.” She puttered around the kitchen.

“The lawyer?” I’d planted the seed about retitling things, but now seemed to be a rough time to push the issue. It was appropriate, but sometimes pushing something when people were most sensitive about it backfired.

She tasted the batter. “Yes, we have to be practical. You were right. I’m getting old, and if something happens…even if I just break a hip and need to be in the hospital for a bit—you need to have the power to make decisions.”

“Gran, it’s not about age. It’s about protecting you. You and Grandpa earned that social security. It’s not like we’re millionaires. If the shop has a decent year, you have to pay back some of your social security money? That could make things tight for you. It’s not fair to lose what you paid in. If I’m the owner, you don’t have to worry. You’ll get your checks and can work however many hours you like as an employee. I know you’ll share all your ideas and help with the baking, but if you don’t feel great, you can rest.”

“It’s a good idea,” she agreed.

She’d made my earlier suggestion her brilliant move. “Yes. And we’ll make sure you have a will and all of that squared away.”

“I already do,” she replied. “The government isn’t going to steal my money. Your changes will make the shop hugely successful.”

I poured the batter into the pan. “Your faith only scares me a little.”

“You just have to be very sure you want to stay. I wanted to give you more time,” she said.

“Time?” I slid the pans into the oven.

She started to clean up silently.

“Don’t get your bandage dirty.” I helped clean and started on some muffins. “What do you mean, time?”

“If you didn’t want to stay,” she said softly.

“Gran.” I wiped my hands on the kitchen towels covered in pictures of daisies. “I’m not flaking on you. I’m not running off like Mom. I grew up here. It’s home.”

She nodded and sniffed.

“I’m not Mom. This isn’t about guilt, either. You took care of me and I’m taking care of you. That’s what family does. That’s what you taught me. Mom couldn’t handle it. She wanted something else and I hope she found it, wherever she is.” I hugged Gran’s frail form. “You’re stuck with me, okay?”

“Okay. But you need a husband. You deserve a family,” Gran teased.

“Nice try.” I squeezed her tight and let go. “I need a successful business first. Worst case, if the shop doesn’t work out, we move to Atlanta. I have connections there and can get a job that’ll make us comfortable.”

“And I just sit at home?” she asked.

“There are senior social centers. Just like you and your four friends hanging out at the shop.”

She set up the muffin tins, putting in the wrappers for the individual muffins. Her hopes were slipping.

“Gran, I don’t want that. I prefer to be here. But I need a backup plan so that I know I can take care of you. Small businesses fail all the time and in small towns, one economic downturn and we’re all pinching pennies.” I could jump into a lecture on how entertainment and pleasure travel trips were the first things to go, along with eating out, when times grew hard, but it wouldn’t change her outlook.

“Have faith. What did I drag you to church for all your life?” she asked.

I stopped and gathered my thoughts. “Sorry, I have faith in your baking and my drinks, but coffee shops are about franchises now. Huge corporations that put shops on every corner and drive small owners out of business. It happens to some. I believe it won’t happen here, but I need you to know that if it does, we’ll be okay.”

She wagged a finger. “Set the timer so you don’t burn the pastries.”

I did as she ordered and went back to the muffins. Southern women communicated through food a lot, and I took the win. She hadn’t flat-out refused.

 

* * * *

 

The doctor was chatty but patient with Gran. We had instructions for the burn.

“Any other problems, Bea?” the old, bald family doctor asked.

“I do. She’s been a bit sleepy lately. I just wondered if any of her meds are causing that?” I asked.

“Age is causing it.” Gran shook her head.

The doc chucked. “I’m sure it’s some of both. You can time your meds before bed so they help you sleep instead of fighting them.”

She flexed her fingers. “My arthritis is flaring up more. That might have something to do with my injury or working more now that Belle stirred things up.”

“I see.” He felt her joints. “Finger joints are already pretty inflamed, and the wrist might swell and you won’t really notice it as much. Topical treatments work well and I want you using wrist supports at work. An Ace bandage if that’s all you want, but see if it helps. We can also try another medication, but I want to see your hand healed first, since that’s a different sort of pain and you’ll be on pain meds for a few weeks.”

“No, you know I don’t like those things,” she argued.

The doc shook his head. “When you’re suffering, you’re not healing. Only take them when you’re in discomfort.”

“We’ll fill it and when you need it, you’ll have them, Gran,” I said.

“Can’t I just use the topical stuff when I need it?” she asked.

“The topical stuff will help with arthritic inflammation, but you can’t put it on an open wound. Take this for now and I’ll see you in a week. We’ll see how you’re doing. Try the topical on your other wrist for now and we can tinker with your arthritis pills later. Okay?” he asked.

“You just want to see me again,” Gran teased.

“Get the most out of your Medicare. Any other complaints? Eating well?” he asked.

She nodded. “With Belle back, I’m eating plenty and resting.”

“Good. And you, Belle? Anything I can do?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Tell everyone my smoothies are good for their health?”

He chuckled. “Sneak in some extra veggies with all that fruit and I will. You seem stressed—you’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Just worried about this murder. The sheriff. People thought I did it and now it’s a long list of suspects. Everyone is walking on eggshells.”

“Oh, I know. I had the deputies come in and ask about what the sheriff was taking. Asking questions about what might’ve been slipped into something. He’s not allergic to anything and that reaction would’ve been obvious.” The doc shook his head.

“No tox screen yet?” I asked.

Gran frowned. “Are you running for sheriff?”

“No, but if people were trying to blame me and my smoothie for it, I’d like to know what killed him. Having this lingering out there hurts our business. I know it sounds horrible to be so selfish, but we’re working hard and we’re innocent. If there is a murderer in town, I want him behind bars.”

“No word yet, but that sort of thing takes much longer than it does on TV shows. I know the medical examiner who did the autopsy. I’ll see if he’ll give me the info. Just so we can rest easy? But we’ll have to wait a bit more,” he said.

Gran beamed with pride, as if her connections had solved the case.

“Thanks, doc,” I said.

He handed us the scripts and left the room.

“I have to come back,” she grumbled.

“It’s okay. You need to take care of yourself. It’s aging,” I teased.

 

* * * *

 

A couple of hours later, we were at the lawyers to change things over.

“You want to sell the business to your granddaughter?” Mr. Blake asked.

“We’re in business together, really. I have a lease on the space, and I’d still work there some, but it’ll be her business.” Gran waved her hand like she had a magic wand.

Mr. Blake frowned. “The lease is in the name of the business, so if the business changes hands, it’ll be fine, but we might want to speak to the landlord and assure them it’s just a family thing. How much do you think the business is worth?”

Gran frowned. “I have the tax reports, but I’m not going to charge her.”

“Then it’s a gift and you’re paying tax on the gift.” Mr. Blake sighed. “Send me over the last three years of tax statements and financials for the last six months to get an idea of the income.”

“I’m not charging her,” Gran repeated.

“Gran, it’s okay. I have some money saved up. I can pay you, we put that money in a joint bank account and use it only in emergencies. That way it’s available to both of us just in case,” I explained.

“You can do that?” she asked.

“I write you the check, you can put it into any account that you want. If you want to put it in a joint account, we both have access to, you can. If you want. But then if you need it but you’re in the hospital and can’t get to it, I can. If you want to buy something, you can. That’s not illegal?” I asked Mr. Blake.

“No, not at all. If you had other family members, I’d suggest letting someone else be the joint account holder, but we all know the situation here. As long as you trust each other, it’s the best way to handle it. Then we have a clear bill of sale for the business—we don’t want to it to get messy.”

“We’ll stop on the way home and set up a joint bank account so it’s there whenever we need it. It’s not a rush—we’re just gathering info and figuring out how to go about this.” I smiled at Mr. Blake.

He leaned forward. “Mrs. Baxter, you’re very lucky. I wish everyone looked after their senior family members like your granddaughter is.”

Gran said, “I know. I want her joint on the house too. And my car.”

“Gran, you don’t need to,” I said.

“Mrs. Baxter, your will specifies Belle as your sole heir. Everything in your name will be hers. You don’t need to retitle anything personal. The business, if you want her to control it now—that’s why you need to do this,” he explained.

“Fine. Then just this,” Gran said.

“Just email me or drop copies of those forms by so I can get our accountant to look at them. We want a fair price that won’t red-flag anything. The government is nothing but trouble for a small business,” he said.

Gran smiled politely. “You’ll have it today. Thanks.”

“Thank you. I think it’s a smart move,” Blake replied.

He stood and opened the door for us as we left.

As we left the office, Mrs. Monroe walked out of the insurance agent office next door.

“Hello, Bonnie, everything okay?” Gran asked.

Mrs. Monroe nodded stiffly. “Just fine. I had hoped one of the kids could sit with me through all that insurance paperwork. But it’s filed. The funeral bill has to be paid.”

“It’s all still in your name, right? That way you can pay off everything you need to and have a cushion in the bank. No squabbling with the kids?” I asked. “I’m sorry, that’s prying. I just know how relieved I was that Grandpa left Gran safe without any surprises.”

I was too young to remember it in real time but, later in life, that bank account from the insurance had saved us many times. Gran finally told me once how Grandpa had always thought Mom would show up one day out of the blue and realize her mistakes. He’d wanted her home so badly. He’d thought he’d failed her. Gran had worried he’d changed something on a work policy or his pension to go to Mom instead of her. She had no control over his work benefits.

“You’re sweet, Belle. Yes, it was in my name, so no stress there. But I still have one child in college and that’s not cheap.” Mrs. Monroe took a deep breath and tucked a tissue into her purse.

“No, it’s not. But there are scholarships and loans. Widows and orphans fund for law enforcement. You have options, if you’re not too proud to reach out,” Gran suggested.

Bonnie fingered her necklace nervously. “We’ll see how it all shakes out once everything is settled. I might downsize the house, and that would help. The boys are out of it and it’s just me and my little dog.”

“We have to keep going, and in the South that means eating. Why don’t I treat you two ladies to lunch?” I asked. “Gran is bored with just me all morning. We can run by the bank tomorrow morning.”

Gran waved at me. “Yes please, Bonnie, come with us. I can’t handle more appointments today. Don’t forget, we’re always around to sit with. Come to the shop after for dessert. Belle’s muffins were perfect today.”

“Oh yes, how is your wrist doing?” Bonnie asked.

Gran dove into a recap of her doctor’s appointment. Hopefully it’d take Bonnie’s mind off her troubles. We walked toward the diner a few doors down and I braced myself for a lot of widow talk.

In order to be a widow, a woman needed one thing I lacked…a husband. I was pretty sure that would come up too. I ordered sweet teas all around and studied the menu.

I wondered what Gus was up to today and immediately squelched the thought. I had bigger fruit to blend than flirting with deputies. My business and a murder mattered more than having a man on my arm.