Page 38 of The Golden Spoon
Who’d have known that Archie Morris’s death could make me feel so hollow. This place, this experience—it is making mefeelfar more than I want to. I did not sign up for this. It was meant to be only a bit of a distraction, some baking, something to brag about. I don’t need to be here, I realize suddenly. I could be at home in my eight-million-dollar apartment with its humidor and walk-in wine cooler, relaxing in front of a nice movie with a container full of weed gummies. I do not need this. If it weren’t for the storm, I’d find my keys and drive off into the sunset.Bake Weekwas a fun experiment, and now the party is clearly over. And Ihatebeing stuck at a bad party. Maybe I’m reverting back to the shallow, dumb version of myself, but I don’t care. Someone is dead. The only thing I want right now is a very stiff drink.
“I’ll be right back. Going to look for something.” I catch a look from Lottie as I turn to go, a flash of disappointment.Oh, whatever, I think. What do I owe her anyway? What do I owe any of them?
STELLA
“Take me upstairs,” Betsy orders me. “I need to freshen up.” Her hair is lank and damp, plastered to the sides of her face, which is puffy and pale without her makeup. Still, I would think the possible murder of her cohost might be more pressing than her appearance at this moment.
I offer her my arm, but she ignores it. Instead, she moves past me toward the main staircase. I slow my pace, allowing her to take the lead. I can’t help but be flattered that Betsy chose me to help her. Just hours ago, alone time with Betsy Martin would have been my dream come true. But the recipe cards in Lottie’s room with their frayed edges and instructions for baking cakes that Betsy made famous have confused me. Is it possible that Lottie is the one who is lying? That Betsy was the actual inventor of the recipes?
Finally, we reach the landing. We pause there and look up at the door to the East Wing, and I see a flicker of fear in her eyes. I’m afraid too. I don’t want to go back up there, past his room. She reaches for my arm now, her hand gripping my elbow. She is heavier than I expected, her weight like an anchor pulling me back as we climb the stairs, up to the East Wing. Walking back into that hallway, I have a moment of panic. I still don’t remember what happened, and it terrifies me. I holdmy breath, squeezing my eyes shut as we pass Archie’s room, each step down the hall feeling like an eternity. Since seeing Archie’s body, time feels like it has slowed down to an excruciating crawl.
There is a tug on my arm, and we stop in front of a set of French doors. Inside is Betsy’s office. It is a large room lined with heavy wood bookcases surrounding a massive stone fireplace. Betsy strides across the room and sinks into a deep leather chair, switching on a small Tiffany lamp.
Above the fireplace, mounted on a plaque made from polished mahogany, is the golden spoon. I have never seen it in person, and it is hard not to stare. It is the shape and scale of a full-size mixing spoon and has the shiny-dull look of solid gold. It must be heavy, I think, leaning in closer to inspect it. I imagine holding it in my hands, the other contestants and cameras crowding around to get a better look.
“I’d like some tea.” Betsy’s voice is sharp, and I jump to, going to the side of the room where a marble countertop holds a set of delicate porcelain mugs and an electric kettle. An angry roll of thunder vibrates through the house. I almost laugh when I realize that this is my fantasy. Tea alone with Betsy Martin. This isn’t exactly how I’d hoped it would be, though. I’d imagined something far more joyful.
“You are the first contestant to ever set foot in the East Wing,” she says as I put the electric kettle on and struggle to open two paper tea bags. My hands feel weak, disembodied.
“Invited, that is,” she adds bitterly.
“Oh?” My voice sounds high. I desperately wish this were my first time. If I had never followed Hannah, then I wouldn’t have woken up in Archie’s room and I wouldn’t have this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“I’ve never allowed any of the contestants into my family’s personal quarters. My parents kept this area private. You have to protect against the prying eyes of the public. Especially when you aresomebody.”
I am not quite sure what to say in response. “Yes, I’m sure it must be very hard.”
“This is just a terrible situation,” she says, her mouth puckering like when she tasted Peter’s bread. I’m not sure if she means Archie’s death or me, a commoner, entering the East Wing.
“It is,” I agree.
The kettle switches off, and I pour steaming water over the tea bags. I hand Betsy a cup and fall into the chair facing hers. The adrenaline of the day is wearing off, leaving me weak and shaky. My teeth chatter as I hold my mug with both hands. Since waking up in Archie’s room, I have been freezing, unable to warm myself up. Now I put my face close to the steam, trying to bring my body temperature back to normal. Betsy is oblivious to me. Her eyes flick to the wall, and I can see her mind racing. It is like I am not even here with her. She’s just had a terrible trauma, I remind myself. We all have. I shudder thinking of Archie’s face, his open eyes staring down as though he could see right into me.
“Do you think the police will be here soon?” I ask. It is strange that Betsy is the only one with a phone, with access to the outside world.
Betsy sets her tea down on the table next to her. “Melanie called earlier. Said something about the storm knocking some power lines into the road. It could be a while.” There’s a concerned pause. “Don’t tell the others.”
“Of course.”
I swallow a sip of my tea. It is far too hot still, and it scalds my throat going down. A thought comes to me, intrusive and terrifying:If I hadn’t followed Hannah, would Archie still be alive?
Betsy looks at me as though expecting something. “I need some time to gather myself,” she says. Her voice is cold. And then I realize that what she wants is for me to leave. I’m embarrassed that I hadn’t understood earlier. I thought she’d wanted the company, but she may have just wanted me to wait on her. I put the teacup down, still full, and stand to leave.
“Yes. Yes. Of course.”
It has taken me all this time to recognize that Betsy isn’t the woman I thought she’d be. She is colder and shrewder than the kindly grandmothershe portrays on television. The real Betsy doesn’t seem to have a nurturing bone in her body. Betsy’s spine is stacked primly, eyes staring ahead angrily. Watching her like this, I realize that she seems more than capable of what Lottie said. She doesn’t so much as glance at me as I shut the door behind me.
I flee down the hall, holding my breath again as I pass Archie’s bedroom—ten, nine, eight. It was stupid of me to ever believe I had a special connection with Betsy. How ridiculous it seems to me now that I’d thoughtBake Weekwould be the start of something new and wonderful. I am just as confused, just as messed up as I was before. I burst out onto the landing.Maybe it’s even worse than that. I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought of it, clenching my fists so that my fingernails dig painfully into my palms.Maybe I’m a murderer.
LOTTIE
The storm is still raging outside. If anything, it is even stronger now. Angry gusts pummel the sides of the manor, wind whipping leaves and other bits of debris against the windowpanes. I have no sense of the time, but it must be well past midnight. Morning cannot come too soon.
“I can’t believe he’s just out there, inthat,” Hannah whispers. It’s something I’ve been trying to push from my mind, but it is almost impossible not to imagine Archie’s body out in the elements. I’m relieved when Stella returns to the kitchen. She sits on a stool, looking pale and exhausted. My relief turns to worry when I see she is shaking violently. No one should have to see a body like that, but the shock of it all seems to have been too much on her especially.
“You’re cold,” I say, surprised. When she looks up at me, her eyes are dark and spooked, haloed in red. I wonder if we all look that way: haunted.
“I’ll go find us some blankets,” I say, wanting to be useful. “Probably best if we all stay together down here until the police come.”
