Page 47 of The Golden Spoon
Beyond her, Stella smiles at me and winks.
The truth is, Stella is completely over her blackouts now. She hasn’t had one since Grafton. Something about that night and remembering, really looking at what happened to her with that horrible guy at her old job. It cured her.
At first, we were prepared to admit what we’d done, to say it was done in self-defense. But then all that past business about Lottie’smom came to light. And Betsy was just acting so crazed. She was already implicated in one murder, having confessed to killing Lottie’s mother. So why not tack on another as well? After all, we weren’t even allowed in the East Wing, so who’d have known? Melanie told everyone how she’d heard Betsy and Archie fighting. I just let people assume it was what happened. I didn’t even have to cover it up. It was a piece of cake.Haha.
PRADYUMNA
We sit around the fireplace in the library. All six of us are back. “Wine?” Lottie says, holding up a bottle.
“None for me, thanks.” I sit back in my chair.
After the police came and carted Betsy away, effectively putting an end to season ten ofBake Week, we were all a bit shell-shocked. We gathered our things and were taken to a local motel for the night in the back of several police cars. The police questioned us all afternoon. I told them what I knew, about Lottie and me searching for clues about her mother and how Betsy had admitted killing Agnes in a jealous rage as a child. She probably wouldn’t have had any jail time—she was only a minor at the time—were it not for Archie’s death. That part is still a bit murky to me. Do I think that Betsy killed him? I don’t know.
I look across the room at Hannah and Stella. They are leaning into each other on the sofa. It’s funny how they’ve bonded. I remember watching them together duringBake Week.They did not take to each other at first; they almost seemed repelled by each other. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. People bond when they share a trauma, and we all lived through a trauma that night. But I do remember those legs sticking out the side of Archie’s bed thatmorning. And I know that when we gathered in the kitchen later, Stella’s hair was wet. The discrepancies were enough to make me always wonder.
But I am not in the blaming business. As I’ve said before, as someone with slippery morals myself, I’m not going to be the one to judge. And Archie was a bit of a twat. Did he deserve to die for it? Probably not. But people get all sorts of things they don’t deserve. Take me and my millions. I certainly didn’t deserve to make that kind of money from an app that is no longer even available. (Turns out alerting people to available spaces was making people overly aggressive and caused a fistfight on more than one occasion.)
I’ve been trying to reframe how I look at my wealth. The way I see it, it’s a tool for me to help people. Right now, I’m using it to fix up Grafton. We’ve hired Peter to do some repairs, which means that he is here too. Of course, we have him bring his partner Frederick and their little girl. That’s the way we are here. The more the merrier, or something like that. I’m happy to have them here. Peter has turned into a true friend. Lottie asked me once if I’m worried that I’ll be sad when the work is done and he leaves. I thought, but did not say, that the nice thing about giant manor homes like Grafton is that the work is never really done. Besides, once we add the bakery building out front and resuscitate the old gardens, it will be a destination that will need a lot of upkeep.
It’s funny how things have changed for me. Before I came toBake Week, I’d been depressed. I’m not afraid of calling it that now. I was looking for solace in activities and drinking. It was because there was just me, I think. I look across the room at Lottie. She is sitting in the wingback chair, her feet clad in a pair of fuzzy slippers. She looks like she has always lived here. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even remember the way Grafton was before, when Betsy was here and we were all strangers. Who’d have known when I applied forBake Weekon a lark that I’d be changing the course of my life for the better? These people mean more to me than winning any competitionever could. Lottie catches my eye and smiles. They always tell you that you have to be enough for yourself before you can heal, and I respectfully disagree. I, by myself, was not enough. I think you need others to even be able to see yourself fully. The best way to find the value in yourself is by being good to someone else. There, you find your purpose, and that is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted.
EpilogueBETSY
The biggest surprise of it all, by far, has been how well she’s adapted to her entire life falling apart. It isn’t as though she enjoys being in prison. She is repulsed by the food, and no one in their right mind wouldn’t be disturbed by a sudden and complete lack of personal freedom. But there is something about it that she has been able to appreciate. She would never say it out loud but Betsy can’t recall a time when she has been less worried. There are some days when she just reads a book all afternoon. She can’t remember the last time she did that. There are moments when she finds herself thinking about Grafton—she can’t help it of course. But the realization will hit her all at once, a mix of horror and relief: her main secret has already been exposed. After so many years of imagining the worst happening, it was a relief in a way to have had it finally happen. The big secret that destroyed her family exposed for all to see. She has a pang of regret, as she often does, that it didn’t happen sooner when her parents were still alive. It would have been better if her mother had allowed Betsy to take the blame for what she did. Then maybe her father wouldn’t have vanished slowly and painfully. Perhaps some healing could have occurred before it was too late.
There is a scraping of metal as a warden opens the grate on her cell door. “You have a visitor.”
She’d nearly forgotten her weekly meeting with Francis. She’d lost track of time since she’d been here. She stands up and combs her hair out with her fingers, runs her hands across her jumpsuit to try to smooth it out. Her clothes are what she misses most of all. If she could just have her cashmere sweaters here, she could almost be comfortable.Almost.Despite how well she’d adapted to prison life, Betsy still wants to leave. This is just a chapter in her story, it is no long-term place for someone like her.
Betsy follows the guard down the corridor. He waves his badge at a keypad that unlocks the door in front of them with an angry buzz.
She sees Francis from across the visitors’ room. His back is to her. His bald spot seems to have grown even larger in the time she’s been here, threatening to take over his entire head. She walks up to the table and sinks into a molded plastic chair across from him. “Francis.”
He smiles pityingly when he sees her. “How have you been? Are you feeling okay?”
“How do you think I’m doing?” Betsy snaps. She leans in, watching him intently, wanting to shake him down for information. “Have you spoken to the producers? Listen, I’ve been thinking, and I know there is a real chance for us to develop something when I get out of here.”
Francis clears his throat. “It may not be so simple.”
“I don’t see why,” Betsy says. “Martha Stewart went to prison, and look at her comeback. If anything, people like her more than they did before.”
“Martha Stewart didn’t murder two people,” Francis counters.
“One person, Francis,” Betsy interrupts him. “I murderedoneperson. And I was twelve years old.”
“I don’t suspect that is the line your defense will go for.” Francis leans back, crossing his arms.
“If you’re not going to be a help, I don’t know why you even visit me here. I could be sitting in my cell reading right now.” She makes as if to stand and watches Francis’s face fall.
“Betsy, wait. I’ve been talking to your lawyers. There is something there, you’re right.Ifthey can prove youdidn’tkill Archie.”
Betsy perks up, interested.
“There’s a statute of limitations on most crimes. Unfortunately for us, murder is not one of them. However, seeing as you were a minor at the time of Agnes Bunting’s death, your lawyers and I were discussing a possible appeal to the judge, suggesting based on the crime and the amount of time that has passed that it would only be fair that you be tried as a child and not as an adult.”
“And what will that do for me?”
“Well, given how long ago the crime was and how few people are left to testify, you’d be more likely to serve one or two years at most. Children usually have far reduced sentences.”
