Page 44 of The Golden Spoon
I never thought I’d be on camera again. I never wanted to much, to be honest. But I could never turn down a request from Lottie, and I wanted to come back to Grafton. It is good for me to put it all into perspective. My new therapist is proud of me for taking this step. But of course, I don’t tell her absolutely everything.
I put on a pair of flowing pants and a fitted vest—I want to look like I’m making an effort. Then I go to the mirror, pin my hair back, and put in some silver earrings. I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The others will already be downstairs, and I don’t want to be late. Not this time.
LOTTIE
The kettle boils, and I direct a stream of hot water over a filter, making myself a fresh cup of coffee. There is coffee already made, a cardboard box with a spigot of suspicious-looking stuff, but I prefer to make mine the old-fashioned way. Molly pops her head around the corner of the kitchen door. “You almost ready, Mom? The crew is all set up.”
I turn to look at my daughter. “I’ll be right there.” We’ll be filming in the library today.
I smile, feeling a flutter of gratitude at seeing her there. It’s a gift that she can be with me at Grafton, that she can get to know where I come from and have a connection to the grandmother she never met, even if it is only symbolic. I make sure the stove is turned off. Agnes’s recipes live here now, in their rightful place on the shelf. It seems strange to me that I had to look so hard to find her, when the truth is I see evidence of my mother every day now. Especially here, in the kitchen. She is in the nicks in the wood of the table where she used to chop vegetables, in the worn surface of the counter where she kneaded bread. And of course, the dogwood. After reuniting with my extended family, I found out that Richard Grafton had often visited their special place, next to the dogwood tree, as he couldn’t mourn her publicly. I still have the photo of them standing in front of it framedin my bedroom. Apparently, he never really recovered from her death. My father. It still feels strange to say it. A part of me will always feel like that little girl hesitantly standing at the threshold of Betsy’s bedroom, an interloper. There are so many things I wish I could go back and ask them, but sometimes that is how life goes—sometimes you don’t get all the answers.
Pradyumna strolls in, casually pouring himself a coffee from the spigot. He looks at home here. Not surprising, given the amount of time he spends at Grafton. It’s practically his second home. Without him, I don’t know how Molly and I would keep Grafton going. I inherited the manor soon after the investigation into Archie’s death was officially closed and Betsy was committed full-time to a mental health facility for violent offenders. The estate fell to me, the only heir not incarcerated. Little did I know the expense of keeping an entire manor house afloat. Pradyumna is a wonderful business partner. As an investor in the estate, I’ve given him part ownership. He is always coming up with new, inventive ways to keep the manor going. It was his idea to hire Peter to bring it back to life. The first thing he did was restore the old staircase. Soon he will begin restoration of the rest of the fourth floor. When producers from Flixer contacted him about making a documentary about what happened here, Pradyumna was the one who suggested we consider it. Grafton as a place has become far more interesting to people now that it is part of two stories involving murders—my mother’s and Archie Morris’s, both pushed to their deaths by an unhinged Betsy Martin.
“Are you nervous?” I ask him.
“Nah. Nothing for us to worry about.” I detect a hint of an emphasis on the wordus. I don’t know what he means exactly, but I don’t push for an answer. Craft services has set up the kitchen counter with food. Mediocre-looking baked goods are piled high on paper plates next to an aluminum tray of raw vegetables. I pick up a fist-size muffin and inspect it.
“Not exactly up to snuff, is it?” Pradyumna laughs. Molly comesin and leans on the counter next to him. I see him discreetly take her hand in his. They think I don’t see. But then, people constantly underestimate what I notice. It’s one of the many advantages of old age, getting to view people who don’t think they’re being watched. For example, I’ve never mentioned to Hannah that I saw her that night with Archie. If she wants to come out with it, she will, I suppose. Still, I’m surprised that she agreed to do the documentary. I didn’t think she of all people would want to relive such a tragic day, but she was the first to respond.
“I think Hannah will take whatever attention she can get,” Pradyumna had said wryly when I told him.
Stella wanders into the kitchen and gives a wobbly smile. “Are we ready? Is this happening? Oh God, I’m really nervous.”
“You’ll be great,” I tell her.
The producers ofBake Weekhad made the controversial decision to air the first three episodes. Instead of one per week, they were released all at once this past winter. It became the most bingeable three hours of television in the country for a good month, with everyone clamoring to look for clues that Betsy Martin was about to snap. For a while, there were too many articles to count that attempted to pinpoint the exact moment Betsy Martin’s insanity took hold.
“TheBake Weekmurders,” they’ve come to be called, and as much as I don’t love having my own mother lumped into some sort of pop culture craziness, a part of me relishes her story being told so openly.
“Mom?” Molly asks again, “Are you ready to go?”
I look around at them, my lovely makeshift family. “I think so.”
GERALD
The producers have decided to film my parts outside the manor so that I can show them where I was when Archie was murdered. I lead them down the front steps and around the side of the manor, stopping under the stone balcony.
The crew begins to set up. Even though the sun is shining, they must first arrange key light and fill lights. I grow fidgety just waiting and recommend an angle that uses the side of the manor wall as a point of reference.
“Please just sit here so we can finish setting up,” a woman says, directing me to a folding chair. I look toward the lawn, where the edge of the tent would have been visible. There will likely never be a tent here again. It doesn’t make me sad, it’s just a fact. A puff of white vapor floats from around the corner of the manor. My body tenses with recognition.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling myself up out of the chair and starting toward the corner of the manor. “I just have to—”
“Please stay,” the interviewer says, leaning forward and putting a hand on my wrist. “I think we are just about ready.” I jerk my arm away from her, still distracted by the plume of smoke. The corner is less than six feet from me. I could be there and back in only twentyseconds, which is really no time at all. I will tell them this, appeal to their common sense.
“Are we ready?” she calls out to the crew, her voice sharp.
“Almost,” someone behind me says.
“Where’s Graham?”
“I’m coming, jeez.” I recognize his voice before I even see the tall man striding around the corner, putting something small and silver into his pocket. He’s shaved his beard, but there is no question who he is. I am excellent at identifying faces. He takes his place at the camera behind the interviewer, giving me a perfect view of him.
Before I can tell anyone else what I’m witnessing, the interviewer begins to speak. “Welcome to Grafton Manor, the setting for one of the most fascinating sets of murders in recent history.”
He must have been the one with Melanie that night I fell from the balcony. I replay their conversation in my head.
“Gerald?” The interviewer is saying my name, leaning forward. She must have asked me a question, but I don’t have time for it right now.
