She Should Have Stayed Lost

SHE SHOULD HAVE STAYED LOST

“Hello, YoYo.”

I had my back turned away from the front door, and was facing the shelves behind the front counter, restocking product. I stopped cold. I had not heard that nickname in a long, long time. Not during this century at least. In fact, I hadn’t heard that nickname since the early nineties — a time when I was a completely different person. A time I wanted to forget. I had recognized the voice, as well, and I was even less enthused to face its owner. A person I wanted to forget.

I turned slowly. Standing before me was someone that I had never expected to see again. Full stop. You know those people who are toxic in your life? The people you wish would lose your phone number? The people who caused you to change your phone number so they couldn’t contact you? Old friends you never wanted to see again? Ever. Well, the person standing in front of me was one of those people. We’d lost touch and I had hoped to never see her again.

Bonita Wilks was standing in front of me, looking around my shop. I just stared at her.  

Bonita in my shop was not good. Not good at all. I thought that I was good and finished with her, forever. How had she found me? But more importantly, why had she found me? I shuddered to think of the possibilities.

“Aren’t you gonna say hello to your old friend?”

I said nothing.

“Nice place, YoYo.”

“What do you want, Bonita?”

“Bonita! Ho ho! What happened to BonBon, huh? No more nicknames?”

“That was a long time ago, Bonita.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it? Thirty years in prison is a long time.”

I said nothing. I had no desire to engage this woman.

“Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.” She ran her hand along the antique wooden counter, and continued to look around the shop. “Really well for yourself.”

I was the owner/operator of The Exotic Teapot, a business that I had started on my own, with my own money almost twenty years ago. It was a small business, with the focus on loose leaf teas from all over the world. My customers were mostly tea lovers, or people who wanted to buy fancy teas for the people in their lives. We served high tea on the weekends, and I also did seminars on tea flavours, and creating personalized blends. So, yeah, I was doing well. But not without a hell of a lot of hard work.

“It sustains me,” I replied.

“It sustains you? It sustains you? How highfalutin’ are you, girl?” She curled her top lip. “I remember when every other word out of your mouth was a cuss word. Not any more, eh? Aren’t you just so fancy.”

Her voice dripped with contempt and sarcasm. I said nothing.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how prison was?” She focussed her laser gaze on me. “I noticed that you didn’t visit.”

I stared, dumbstruck.

“Why in the world would I have visited you?” I asked, incredulous. “What makes you think I would have wanted to have anything to do with you?”

“We were friends. I went to prison. You didn’t. I think you owe me.”

“Owe you?” I asked, clenching my fists — I was getting riled up. “Owed you for what?”

“Again, I went to prison, you lived your life. You should have gone to prison as well. I took the fall. You owe me.”

“Took that fall for what?” I could hear my voice raising, and feel my face flushing. “You killed your family. I had nothing to do with that.”

“If you hadn’t told me about the poison, I never would have killed them.”

I just stood and looked at her, my mouth slightly open with astonishment, arms crossed in front of me. I wanted to call bullshit. With or without me, she would have killed her family. She was a violent psychopath who felt that her family owed her. Just like she thought that I owed her.  

I felt a shiver run down my spine. A little voice in the back of my brain said, “look what she did to the last people she thought owed her.”

She continued to speak. “In fact, if I remember correctly, you told the police about our conversations about poison. That makes your kinda responsible for my incarceration.”

I was getting mad now. We had talked about poison, in general terms, but that’s all I thought it had been — talk. Morbid talk, sure. But just talk. When we were blowing off steam after our classes at university, we’d talk about school. Not that I was a particularly engaged student. I didn’t get my act together until Bonita had been convicted of poisoning her family and sent to prison. Before that there was a lot of partying, drinking, drugging. And hanging out with Bonita.

“I think you need to leave, Bonita.”

“Sure. I can see you are a little uncomfortable around me. I’ll go for now. But seriously YoYo, we need to talk.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the store. I knew that I would see her again.

That night after I closed the store I sat in the dark thinking about Bonita. I was first year, she was first year, and we happened to be put in the same dorm room, roommates. We didn’t have any classes together, but we did seem to migrate to the same parties, and we got to know one another. Truthfully, Bonita and I became friends because we liked partying — you know, birds of a feather. Soon, we didn’t even need a party to get drunk or high, we’d just have our own little party in our room. I was taking a pretty heavy load of science, focus on organic chemistry — my parents had visions of me in medical school, haha. 

One class that I particularly liked was Botnical Pharmacology. A significant part of the course dealt with poisons and medicine. It was fascinating, all the plants that could kill you, or save you, depending on the amount you used. I told Bonita how much I liked the course, and she was really interested. She kept peppering me with questions, and asking how much poison would a person need, and would the person know they were being poisoned. The course wasn’t that specific, so I told her I had no idea, but still she asked. In fact, I was pretty sure that she had stolen my Botanical Pharma textbook, because it disappeared and I had to buy another copy.  

At the time, I didn’t think too much about Bonita’s fascination with poison. I figured she was just fixating on the topic — you know, it was kind of ghoulish, but still interesting. At least I didn’t think too much about it until I heard about her family dying.  

It had been the spring of 1992. The spring semester was almost over. Neither of us had been paying too much attention to school I was just passing by the skin of my teeth and would probably be on academic probation for year two, if I came back. Bonita was doing better. I don’t know how, but she was okay. Not Dean’s Honour Roll, but better than me.  

Let me preface this by pointing out a little-known rule at university — if there is a death in your immediate family, you don’t have to write your final exams. I guess I should be relieved, because the same rule also applies if your roommate dies. I thought a lot about that over the years. What if she had liked her family more than she had like me? Things could have been so different. 

I found out what Bonita had done when the police arrived at our room. Bonita hadn’t mentioned a thing about her family dying. I didn’t have a clue until the cops arrested her for murder.

I was so disturbed by the deaths. But, oddly, I wasn’t that surprised. Don’t get me wrong, I had no idea that Bonita was planning her family’s demise. But I was not shocked that she had done it. There was something off about Bonita, but I ignored it because she was my party buddy. I was never afraid of her, per se. But when she talked about her family, there was nothing there. No emotions, no happiness. Just nothing. I was at war with my parents constantly that first year — why wasn’t I getting better grades? Why didn’t I try harder? They were going to pull me out of school because it was a waste of everyone’s time and money. But not Bonita. She just said that her parents weren’t happy with her scholastic achievements, but she didn’t care. I think that maybe they were afraid of her. I couldn’t be sure, it was just they way she related their conversations to me. And, again, in hindsight, I guess they were right to be scared.

The police interviewed me the next day. I had to go to the station for my statement which lasted five hours. Although the cops that interviewed me said I wasn’t a suspect, they did ask me if I had helped Bonita make the poison. That shook me to the core. I told them everything that Bonita and I had talked about pertaining to poisons. And I stopped partying, right then and there. I did not want the taint of Bonita on me.

When the trial started, I was a witness for the prosecution — Did the defendant show any unusual interest in poison? Had she asked me about repeatedly about dosage and use? Did you realize that she had stolen your Botanical Pharmacology textbook? And for the defence — Had the defendant ever talked to me about killing her family? Had she conspired with me to kill them?

She was found guilty after a day of deliberations. One of the most damning pieces of evidence was my old textbook, complete with recipes and margin notes, all in Bonita’s hand. She had hidden it in her dresser. She was sentenced to three life sentences, no chance of parole for twenty-five years.

Bonita went to prison, I went on with my life. Kyle and I met in third year, we married after graduation, and Charlie our son was born two years later. Eventually, I started my shop, and Kyle started his own legal practice. We were happy, living our best lives. And then Bonita came crashing back in.

When I got home that night, I told Kyle. He knew all about my history with Bonita, the murders, the trial, the sentence.

“What am I going to do?” I asked him.

We were sitting at the kitchen island. My hands were shaking, and I felt slightly nauseous.

“If she continues to harass you, we can get a restraining order,” he suggested.

Bless his lawyerly soul. But a restraining order wasn’t going to stop Bonita. She’d had thirty years to get her hate-on for me, and convince herself that everything was my fault. 

“I’m not sure that would work,” I said. “She’s always been a very determined person. And, yes, a psychopath, but a very determined psychopath.”

We went to bed, nothing resolved.

The next morning, when I was getting ready to leave for work, I found a package on the front step. I picked it up, and looked inside. It was a cake. I almost screamed and dropped it. Bonita had killed her family using a poisoned cake.

I looked around. Bonita was standing across the street. She gave me a cheery little wave, and walked away.

I ran back into the house on shaky legs, holding the cake box away from my body like it was a bomb. I put it on the counter, and went to the stairs to call Kyle down. When I got back into the kitchen, Charlie had cut a piece of cake, and was just about to eat a bite.

“Cake for breakfast! Best Mom Ever!”

I lunged at him and knocked the fork out of his hand before he got the first bite into his mouth. The plate crashed to the ground.

“Don’t eat that!” I screamed.

Charlie just looked at me, then a the mess of smashed cake and broken plate lying on the floor, then back at me.

“Holy crap, Mom. If you didn’t want me to eat the cake, don’t leave it on the counter.”

I took a big breath. If I told him why he couldn’t eat the cake, then I had to tell him the whole story.

“I think the cake is poisoned.”

When the police came, they gathered up the evidence — including the mess on the floor.

Then they interviewed me: How did I know the cake was from Ms. Wilks? How did I know for sure that the cake was poisoned?  Could it not just be a joke, or even a gift, or maybe a way to say sorry? Did Ms. Wilks say anything threatening to me this morning when I saw her? Did I realize that is was not illegal to walk down the street, and she does have access to public property? Had she threatened me in any way when she was in the store yesterday? Maybe she wanted a job, and that’s what she had meant by “owing” her. And on it went. For almost an hour.

On the whole they seemed to think that I was over-reacting. They would have the cake analyzed, but that would take months. In the meantime, they suggested that I try to avoid Ms. Wilks. If she broke the law, by all means, call them, but I couldn’t stop her from walking down the street.

I was demoralized. And afraid. She had targeted my family, and there was nothing I could do about it. I headed for work after admonishing both Charlie and Kyle to eat nothing — and I meant nothing — that did not come from this house.

I was late opening the shop, and, as I knew would happen, Bonita was my first “customer” of the day.

“Wow, it looked like you got a gift today at home.”

“Leave my family alone, Bonita, or I swear, you’ll regret it.”

“What are you talking about YoYo? I’m confused.”  

She smiled, but there was no joy in her gaze, only hatred.

She continued talking.

“You know, I could go away, but that would take a bit of money. I’m short right now. Do you think you could help an old friend out?”

So, that was it. A shakedown.  

“How much?”

She looked around the shop. “Thirty grand should be enough.”

“I don’t have thirty grand,” I replied.

She looked me in the eye.  

“How much is the safety of your family worth? You can’t watch them all the time. Eventually …”

She let that hang.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll have your money tomorrow.”

The next day, Bonita arrived around noon, and I handed over thirty thousand dollars in cash, tightly wrapped in plastic wrap, inside a plastic bag. I handed it over, and hoped that I would never see her again.

****

Detective Terry Waits looked at the body on the floor of the cheap motel.

“So, Bonita Wilks, 51, released from prison last week after serving thirty years of killing her family. With poison. Now she’s dead. From poison.”

Detective Carlos Ito looked at the scene in front of them.

“That’s an awful lot of money for someone just getting out of prison.”

Both detectives were wearing full hazmat gear, including respirators. The first officers on the scene noticed the signs of poisoning, and called in hazmat. The suspected cause — cyanide.

“Looks like the money was the cause. Poisoned money,” said Ito. “I wonder who she got it from?”