Death of a Chocoholic (3 page)

Hayley decided to celebrate her temporary windfall by swinging by the Shop 'n Save after work and purchasing three filets mignons for her and the kids for dinner. Gemma especially was a wildly enthusiastic carnivore, so perhaps an expensive piece of meat might help improve her mood.

As usual, the grocery store was packed right after work. Hayley was having trouble maneuvering her grocery cart through the meat and poultry section because of the crowd of shoppers pawing over the ground beef and cuts of steak and boneless, skinless chicken. She thought it best to wait and come back in a few minutes after the traffic jam of metal carts had dispersed.

Hayley veered her cart to the right and steered toward the produce section where she could stock up on some fresh vegetables for a salad and a few rustic potatoes she could bake as a side dish to the steaks. She stopped to tear off a plastic bag from the roll next to the lettuces and perused the washed romaine, when she heard shouting coming from behind her.

Hayley spun around to see who was causing the commotion.

It was Ron Hopkins, the owner of the Shop 'n Save. His face was beet red and his eyes were flaring. He was wagging a finger at someone whose back was to Hayley.

But there was no mistaking who that someone was.

Bessie Winthrop.

Hayley had known Bessie since high school. They were never particularly close but always managed a friendly wave whenever they spotted each other. Bessie was what you might call a local eccentric. She was five feet two inches tall and weighed roughly three hundred pounds. She was fond of bright rainbow-colored blouses and muumuus, which certainly called attention to her if her loud, booming voice failed to do so. There was no volume control on Bessie. Screaming her order while dining at any of the local restaurants always drew irked stares. She had a massive head of hair, which was teased out in all different directions. Everyone in town prayed they wouldn't end up sitting behind her in a movie theater. Bessie lived alone, never married, and had a small tattoo of Garfield, the cartoon cat, on the back of her neck.

Ron finished his tirade and tried to walk away, but Bessie reached out and grabbed his arm with her pudgy fingers. She was clutching a small white box wrapped in pink cellophane that matched the pink parka she was wearing over her multicolored muumuu. She tried to force the box on Ron. He struggled to free himself from her grip and knocked into her. The cellophane-wrapped box rolled off her bosom and landed on the floor. This just made Bessie even angrier.

She kept an iron viselike grip on Ron's arm and bellowed, “Don't walk away from me! I'm not done talking to you, Ron!”

“Well, I'm done talking to you! Now let go of me!”

She wouldn't. She latched onto his other arm with her free hand, trying to pin him down like a Greco-Roman wrestler. Ron hated to be touched. Just ask his wife, Lenora, who was at the moment filing for divorce and asking for a huge settlement. So the idea of Bessie's hands all over him was more than he could handle.

Ron glanced around, desperate for some kind of intervention. But the only shopper within spitting distance was Tilly McVety, a nurse at the local hospital, who stood frozen in her tracks near the oranges and grapefruits, desperate not to get involved.

That left Hayley.

She dropped a potato back on the pile and pushed her cart over to help rescue Ron.

“Excuse me, Ron, I hate to interrupt you, but the green peppers look a little sad and picked over. When's a new shipment of produce expected to come in?”

Ron looked as if he could cry, he was so grateful. “Tomorrow.”

Bessie was so surprised by Hayley's sudden presence that she loosened her grip, allowing Ron to wrench his arm free and quickly step away from her. While doing so, he accidentally stepped on her cellophane-wrapped box with the heel of his shoe and crushed it.

Bessie just stared at the demolished box and the wrinkled cellophane; her eyes welled up with tears.

“Bessie, is everything all right?” Hayley asked.

Bessie spun her head around to Hayley, wiped her snotty nose with her forearm, and nodded curtly before pushing past Ron and out of the store.

Ron was rolling up his shirtsleeve and inspecting his arm. “Look, Hayley, look what she did to me!”

He thrust out his arm, where there were three barely perceptible red marks. “I should have that crazy woman arrested for assault!”

“Ron, calm down and tell me what happened.”

Ron reached down and picked up the crushed box Bessie dropped. “She's a loon, Hayley. She came in here with this box of her homemade chocolates and insisted I carry them in my store. Like she's trying to sell me a Whitman's Sampler or she's from friggin' Godiva! She's insane!”

“It's not such a stretch to think you might carry her product, Ron. You sell Ida Redmond's homemade jams and what about Jackson Mullet, that local artist from Lamoine? I've bought a couple of his greeting cards from this store.”

“Yes. Okay. Busted. But Ida's jam is delicious and people love that Mullet guy's cards! Who is going to want to buy chocolates they know Bessie made in her kitchen?”

“I don't understand.”

“Oh, Hayley, come on, you're not living in a bubble. You must know about Bessie's living conditions.”

All Hayley knew was that Bessie lived in a small two-story house near the end of Ledgelawn Avenue. From the outside it looked perfectly cute and charming.

“She's shacked up with about fifty cats. When my wife, Lenora—excuse me, soon-to-be ex-wife—was trying to make some extra cash selling makeup last year, she stopped by Bessie's house. Bessie insisted she come inside for a cup of coffee, and Lenora said the place was right out of the TV show
Hoarders.
There were filthy cats everywhere and smelly litter boxes right out in the middle of the living room. When Lenora went to take a sip of her coffee, there was white fur floating in it like a friggin' marshmallow.”

“I can see why you might not want your customers eating one of Bessie's chocolates if they were prepared in a kitchen that wasn't sanitary.”

“The town dump is more sanitary. No way! No way am I going to sell her chocolates and open myself up to a lawsuit. For all I care, she can beg and plead and cut my arm to shreds with her ridiculously sharp fingernails!”

Okay, now he was being a little overdramatic.

But he did have a point.

Just the idea of eating one of Bessie's chocolates made Hayley's stomach turn. There was no way Hayley was ever going to try one.

Famous last words.

When Hayley carried her two heavy bags of groceries out of the store, she immediately regretted not wheeling them out in a cart. She forgot she had parked her car at the far end of the parking lot that snaked around the side of the store. She decided to tough it out. At least holding the handles of her reuseable bags might develop her upper-body strength. It certainly wouldn't be because of her time at the gym; she hadn't been to the gym in months.

Hayley reached her Kia and popped open the trunk. She lifted the bags with all her might and dropped them inside. Then she slammed the trunk shut. She was about to open the driver's-side door, when she heard a noise. She turned to where the sound was coming from. It was a guttural wail, like an injured animal's. It was coming from behind the store's large green Dumpster.

Hayley took a step forward.

She spotted a bit of a bright flowery print.

Bessie's blouse.

Bessie was hiding behind the Dumpster.

More wailing.

More sobbing.

Then a sucking sound as Bessie tried to catch her breath.

Hayley frowned and marched over behind the Dumpster to find Bessie blowing her nose into a wad of used napkins, which Hayley prayed she hadn't picked out of the Dumpster.

Hayley put a comforting hand on Bessie's shoulder. Bessie jumped, startled, and took a roundhouse swing at Hayley. Hayley staggered back; Bessie's pudgy fist missed her nose by inches.

“Bessie, relax! It's only me, Hayley.”

Bessie squinted through her tears. “Oh, Hayley. Sorry. I thought you might be a rapist trying to take advantage of my frail condition.”

“Frail” was not a word Hayley would ever associate with Bessie.

“What are you doing behind this Dumpster?” Hayley asked.

“Ron upset me so much. Made me feel like a freak. He said nobody in his right mind would ever eat one of my chocolates. He just wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. Nobody ever does. I can see people's eyes glaze over whenever I strike up a conversation with them. Or the looks on people's faces when I approach, as if they're saying to themselves, ‘Oh, God, here comes Bessie Winthrop. How am I going to get around having to talk to her?' It's awful, Hayley, just awful.”

“Bessie, you know that's not true.”

“You're just trying to make me feel better. I know it. Ron couldn't have been more dismissive. And when I left the store, I just lost it. I was so distraught—I wanted to throw up. That's been happening ever since middle school when that nasty Sabrina Merryweather teased me for having four Jell-O pudding pops in my
Saved by the Bell
lunch pail. Anyway, I was standing outside the automatic doors of the store and I just started to dry heave right in front of everyone trying to come in and shop. I was so embarrassed that I ran around to the side of the building and took refuge behind this Dumpster, where nobody can see me. And I'm just waiting it out until I can calm down and walk home with at least a shred of dignity.”

“Where's your car?”

“At home in my driveway. It's kaput. Needs a new engine, which I can't afford. I was hoping if Ron sold my chocolates, maybe they'd become popular and I might make enough money to pay for the car repair.”

“Bessie, let me drive you home.”

Bessie stopped crying and looked at Hayley.

Grateful someone was finally taking at least a slight interest in her.

“That's so kind of you, Hayley. Thank you.”

Hayley steadied Bessie with a gentle hand under her arm and guided her over to her car. Bessie plopped into the passenger seat and struggled with the seat belt. She began a verbal tirade about how the car companies conspired against plus-size women with ample bosoms by not making the straps longer. When she finished, her tears were gone and she was downright chatty as Hayley drove her to her tiny house on Ledgelawn Avenue.

As they pulled up in front of Bessie's house, Bessie reached out with her long fingernails and touched Hayley's coat. “Thank you so much for the ride home. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Hayley had to admit she was curious to see the inside of the house and if Ron's wife was exaggerating about Bessie's living conditions.

But she wanted to get home.

“Sorry, Bessie, I've got three cuts of very expensive steaks I need to broil for dinner tonight. I'm celebrating. Got a temporary raise at work today.”

Bessie's eyes lit up. “Congratulations! Then I insist you come in . . . just for a few minutes. I made some of my homemade chocolate truffles today. You can take them home as a dessert.”

Bessie looked so happy to have someone to talk to, even if only for a few minutes. Hayley relented. She shut off the car and got out. Bessie was still struggling to free herself from the seat belt, so Hayley went around to assist her and then they walked up to the house.

Bessie unlocked the front door and ushered her guest inside. Hayley stepped into the darkened foyer and was suddenly overwhelmed by a nauseating stench. She could barely breathe. Bessie flipped on the lights. Ron's soon-to-be ex-wife, Lenora, was definitely not exaggerating. The hallway was lined with boxes of books and junk and old clothing and knickknacks.

“Let me put the coffeepot on,” Bessie said, having to turn sideways in order to squeeze through the small pathway to the kitchen. Hayley followed.

The kitchen was a disaster area. Dishes and pots and pans were piled high in the sink. Litter boxes, which hadn't been cleaned out, lined up around the walls and underneath the small kitchen table. The upholstery on the chairs was ripped and torn and the stuffing was hanging out.

And then there were the cats.

Dozens of them.

All shapes and sizes.

Pouring in from all different directions.

Jumping up on the counter.

Rubbing up against Hayley's leg.

The cacophony of meows was almost deafening. Hayley could not believe her eyes. Bessie was too busy scooping spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the top of her coffeemaker to notice the three cats bunched up together on the counter and licking her hand.

“I don't have many friends, Hayley,” Bessie said, closing the top of the coffeemaker and pushing the start button. “I appreciate you being so nice to me.”

“I'm your friend, Bessie,” Hayley said, her heart breaking.

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Bessie smiled and then pulled a key out of the pocket of her polyester tan slacks and pressed it into the palm of Hayley's hand.

“What's this?” Hayley asked.

“The key to my heart.”

Hayley's face fell and Bessie cackled.

“I'm kidding. It's a key to my house.”

Hayley gave her a puzzled look.

“I have nightmares, every once in a while, that something's going to happen to me, like I might kick the bucket while watching
Duck Dynasty
and nobody even notices I'm not around town for, like, weeks or months, and then finally the house starts to smell. . . .”

Starts
to smell?

“And it gets so bad the fire department has to break the door down and they find me dead in my recliner, stiff and decomposing, and the cats have eaten my face off because they're so hungry. I've heard stories of that happening, you know.”

Hayley nodded, horrified at the thought.

“So now that I have a friend looking out for me, I want her to have a key so she can check up on me. Just in case.”

Hayley opened her mouth to protest. She didn't think she was ready to be Bessie's caretaker; but then she saw Bessie's face, hopeful and excited that she finally found someone who actually cared enough to keep tabs on her.

Or cared at all.

Hayley pocketed the key. “What are friends for?”

Bessie beamed from ear to ear.

Bessie picked up a small box. This one was wrapped in yellow cellophane. She blew the cat hair off the top of it before handing it to Hayley. “Here are the truffles I promised for you and the kids. Enjoy!”

Hayley stared at the box and forced a smile on her face. “Yummy.”