Two
“You’re making menervous.”
This was at a time when the simple act of making Viennese whirls could still put a resident on edge. Before the murders.
“Does it say that the tablespoon should be heaped? Because you’ve just put a heaped tablespoon in the bowl, and a heaped tablespoon is not a tablespoon. It’s effectively a tablespoon and a half.”
“Does it really matter, Geoffrey?” said Margaret.
“I’m just saying…”
Here we go, thought Carol.
Geoffrey leaned forward to emphasize the brilliance of his statement. “I’m just saying baking is ascience, not an art form.”
Geoffrey had said this many, many times before.
“I could strangle him, I really could,” Carol muttered to Margaret, under her breath. Margaret let out a quick little yelp of laughter, oblivious to the truth of Carol’s statement.
“You’re doing super, girls,” said Desmond, from his chair.“Ignore Geoff. He’s an arsehole.” Desmond’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
“All I’m saying is that…”
“We all know what you’re saying, Geoffrey,” said Margaret. “Really, we do.Thank you.”
The group had been spending Tuesday mornings in the communal kitchen for six weeks or so. Elisa, the concierge, the lady who ran the day-to-day business of Sheldon Oaks, had put up a poster for “Bake Off Tuesdays,” and a few of the more active residents had signed up. There were a lot more activities on offer since Elisa had started working there, people said. She had an energy about her.
At first, they’d all mucked in together in the kitchen, but you could quickly see that that wasn’t going to work. Too many cooks and all that. Carol and Margaret had ended up doing most of the baking. Sometimes Desmond would get a burst of enthusiasm, start mixing something, realize he was more of a hindrance than a help, and return to his chair. Carol suspected that Catherine, who was currently reading on the sofa, had retreated from the actual baking because she didn’t want to embarrass the others. In the first week, she’d effortlessly put together the most magnificent custard slices. Flaky—light, really—just to die for. Since then she’d stepped back. Perhaps she’d looked at the disasters the others were plating up and felt like an adult joining in an under-tens football match.
So Carol and Margaret were the only remaining actual bakers, but the group was the group and here they gathered every Tuesday at 10:30 a.m.
Light, dappled by the summer leaves, shone in from acourtyard and onto the marble countertops. At the edge, away from the kitchen island, there were a sofa and a couple of sleek armchairs. Kitchens, for Carol, had been functional rooms, where work got done. This was foreign to her: a kitchen built purely for leisure. She liked it.
Elisa popped her head in. “Everything okay, ladies?” She nodded at the men. “Gentlemen.”
Carol still couldn’t place Elisa’s accent (possibly Spanish?) and had not yet asked her where she came from for fear of offending her. She’d heard something on the radio about how asking people where they came from was apparently a no-no now. She wasn’t sure why. Some friendly curiosity was a good thing, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that how you got to know people? Surely if you meant well that was all that mattered. It wasn’t like Carol was going to say, “Where are you from?” and then Elisa would say, “Madrid,” and then Carol would punch her in the face, spit on her, kick her to the ground. Carol would just say, “Oh, you must miss the weather,” and then that would be a nice icebreaker to get the conversation rolling. Better not risk it, though. Carol wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. She’d always found navigating social niceties tricky. Perhaps that’s what had led her in the direction of recreational murder.
“All good, thank you, Elisa,” said Carol.
“Lovely. Whatever you’re making, save some for me.”
“I really wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Margaret. “I’m not sure we’ve produced anything edible for weeks.”
“You ladies make me laugh,” said Elisa as she left.
Carol had surprised herself with how quickly she’d slotted into Sheldon Oaks life. She supposed that, for all its comforts, all she’dreally done was swap one institution for another. Yes, there was freedom here, yes, she was no longer surrounded by criminals, but there were plenty of similarities. This was a place that ran on routine. You saw the same faces every day. Most people ate the same food, had the same conversations.
And then there were the differences. Carol looked around her, as she often did now, and thought about all the killing implements that were suddenly available to her. Decades of not being trusted with metal cutlery, and now, right in front of her, there was a knife rack. She could slice the arteries of everyone in this room in a minute. On the counter was a blender she could shove Margaret’s hand into and turn the color of a chunky tomato soup. A mortar and pestle. Which was the mortar and which was the pestle? She wasn’t sure, but she did know that either, with a force she was still capable of, could cave in a skull.
There was a sad irony to it. She’d given up killing for good, and here she was, living in a murderer’s paradise. Like a recovering alcoholic getting a job at a liquor store. She trusted herself not to relapse. These people were her friends, and that impulse had left her. It belonged to the last century—but, oh, what a younger Carol Quinn could have done in this playground.
Desmond made a noise, using his stick to propel his sturdy frame into a standing position. “I keep nodding off,” he said. “Think I’ll go for a lie-down. Got a busy afternoon planned.”
“Oh, yes?” said Margaret.
Desmond tapped his nose playfully. He liked to give the impression that he had a lot going on, but Carol sensed that he didn’t. A “busy afternoon” probably meant the cricket was on TV.
“All right, Desmond,” said Margaret. “We’ll bring you a couple of biscuits if there are any.”
