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    Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly
    Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly
    Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly
    Ebook144 pages2 hours

    Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly

    By Sissy Nelsen

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    About this ebook

    At the sound of the gavel an
    instant hush fell over the courtroom as
    Alice Wray and her attorney stood up to
    hear the judges sentencing.
    All eyes were on Alice Wray who
    stood straight, face masked in indifference,
    not a noticeable tear in her eyes.
    Alice Wray would you like to address
    the court before sentencing? Judge Ellis asked.
    There was dead silence in the courtroom
    Everyone seemed to be holding their breath
    as the barely audible whispered words of
    Alice Wray were heard, No, thank you.
    Judge Ellis frowned. Well, I would like to
    say something, he said. Never, in all my
    years on the bench, which amounts to a
    total of twenty-two years, have I witnessed
    such a senseless and deliberate act of murder.
    . It grieves me to think a mother could be
    capable of killing her own innocent children.
    Alice Wray you are hereby sentenced to
    life in prison without benefit of parole.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateMay 17, 2013
    ISBN9781481750431
    Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly
    Author

    Sissy Nelsen

    Mystery is her forte, but now she has written a story for children. A story to teach them the true value of the common earthworm, as well as the value of hard work.

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      Book preview

      Sugar and Spice and Everything Deadly - Sissy Nelsen

      CHAPTER ONE

      image_240.jpg

      At the time I was a cub reporter working for the Xenia Daily Gazette. I remembered sitting in the packed courtroom watching as the jury of six men and six women came walking through the door. Try though I certainly did, their solemn faces were unreadable. Only two of them, I noticed, chanced a glance in the direction of the defense table where, in an orange prison uniform, sat Alice Wray, convicted of murdering her five-year-old twin daughters, Jodie and June Wray, by drowning them in a bathtub full of water. The jury had voted her guilty of murder in the first degree.

      The case had shocked the nation and made all the headlines, having dragged on for months. The question being, how could any sane mother commit such an atrocity? The defense tried to make the case based on mental illness, although there were no past records of it, while the prosecutors made it about motherhood. The two girls had become a hindrance to their mother, cramping her life style, and she wanted them out of her life forever.

      At the sound of the gavel an instant hush fell over the courtroom as Alice Wray and her attorney stood up to hear the judge’s sentencing.

      All eyes were on Alice Wray who stood straight, face masked in indifference, not a noticeable tear in her eyes.

      Alice Wray, would you like to address the court before sentencing? Judge Ellis asked.

      There was dead silence in the courtroom. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the barely audible whispered words of Alice Wray were heard. No, thank you.

      Judge Ellis frowned. Well I would like to say something, he said. Never, in all my years on the bench, which amounts to a total of twenty-two years, have I witnessed such a senseless and deliberate act of murder. It grieves me to think a mother could be capable of killing her own innocent children. Alice Wray you are hereby sentenced to life in prison without benefit of parole.

      Alice Wray turned to her attorney and from all appearances was thanking him just before turning to the two guards who waited to escort her out of the courtroom. Head high, back straight, Alice Wray followed the guards having been sentenced to spending the remainder of her life in prison. She was twenty-eight years old.

      It wasn’t until ten years later that I would accidentally cross paths with Alice Wray. I was working as a freelance writer and doing an article on prison reform in women’s penitentiaries. Warden Ethel Bernard was graciously showing me around. She was a woman in her mid-fifties and from what I heard did a ten year hitch in the U.S. Army and made Sergeant prior to becoming a warden. She as appointed to warden by the governor and was known to be a strict disciplinarian and a strong advocate of prison reform.

      In this cell-block, she said, are women who have committed the most heinous crimes and are called ‘lifers’. They’ll be with us for the rest of their natural lives.

      By chance, in the last cell on my right, I noticed a woman sitting on her cot reading a book. I’ve seen that woman before, I said in astonishment.

      Wouldn’t surprise me none, her picture was all over the papers. That’s Alice Wray, she’s in for life. Maybe you remember the case; she drowned her twin daughters.

      Now I remember. I was in the courtroom when she was sentenced. That had to be over ten years ago.

      She had two appeals but both were denied.

      I’m curious, I frowned, what is she like?

      Alice? She’s a model prisoner and surprisingly an intelligent and likeable person. I wish all the inmates were like her.

      Has she ever opened up to anyone about what she did? I asked.

      No. Not that I know of. She had a pretty rough time of it when she first came here. The other inmates don’t take kindly to child killers. She’d have gotten away with killing her husband, but not her children, as far as they are concerned. Believe it or not, they have a strange code of ethics amongst themselves. But over the years things have changed; the other inmates seem to like her.

      We had turned the corner of the cell-block when suddenly I was struck with an overpowering urge to meet Alice Wray. Perhaps there was a good story in it for me. By any chance, Warden Bernard, do you think I could meet with her?

      Warden Bernard stopped in her tracks and stared at me. Why? Why would you want to meet her?

      I shrugged. I really don’t know. I just have this feeling that maybe she’d open up to someone who has a good ear.

      Well, she said hesitantly, I guess I could arrange it, but I seriously doubt if after ten years she’s going to say anything of interest.

      I’d like to give it a try.

      Under the pretext that I would be writing an article on prison food, Warden Bernard made arrangements for me to be in the cafeteria at the same time that Alice Wray would be having her evening meal. I went through the chow line along with the rest of the inmates giving little thought to the food that was being put on my plate. I was more interested in finding Alice Wray in the crowded cafeteria. It took me a while before spotting her among the other hundred or so inmates in orange uniforms. I slowly made my way over to the table where she was sitting and was happy to see that the seat next to Alice Wray was empty.

      Do you mind if I sit here? I said.

      Alice Wray turned and gave me a sidelong glance. Suit yourself, she said. No reservations are necessary in here.

      Although her answer was abrupt, there was a distinct soft and gentle quality to her voice that surprised me. I laughed and set my tray down on the table. While making myself comfortable in my seat, I chanced to look down at the plate of food in front of me. The sight appalled me. It looked like one big heap of mishmash. Reluctantly, I picked up my fork not knowing where to begin. Sitting opposite me was an older woman with long gray hair and no teeth. She was hunched over her plate practically shoveling the food into her mouth as if it was her last meal. I turned to Alice Wray and said, Would you mind very much telling me what’s on my plate. I can’t make heads or tails of anything, except the green beans.

      She laughed. At twelve o’clock is your meat, buried in gravy. At six o’clock that gray matter is mashed potatoes. And at seven o’clock is mixed veggies that were left over from yesterday’s dinner menu. The paper cup is holding your dessert; a brownie covered in apple sauce.

      You could have fooled me, I said and forked into the meat that was buried under gravy. I found a heap of meatloaf that never jelled but looked more like a volcano that erupted. Do you come here often? I asked.

      Every chance I can get, she retorted.

      I was glad to see she had a sense of humor and decided to be up front with her well knowing that my identity was already circulating through the prison grapevine. My name is Heather–Heather Wheeler. I’m writing an article on prison reform. By the looks of this plate, I guess I should start with the meals they serve.

      For a long time she didn’t say anything. Then quite unexpectedly I heard a deep sigh escape her lips before saying, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Do you work for a magazine or a newspaper? Or are you a freelance writer?

      I was taken aback by her question. Free…lance, I stammered. I’m not committed to anyone. I work at my own speed, and more importantly, my own interest.

      Why prison reform? she frowned.

      To be honest, it’s a hot subject since Martha Stewart’s been in jail. I’ll be riding on her coattails so to speak.

      She nodded in understanding. That makes a lot of sense.

      Do you write? I asked.

      I don’t know if you’d call it that, she said, but I keep a diary. It helps to pass the time.

      I was puzzled. You mean you keep a diary of every day that you’ve been here. I would think that all the days would be the same…more or less.

      No. Not of the days I’ve been here but of some of the days before I came here. I keep going over each day before I came here. You’d be surprised how, if you try hard enough, you can recall things that happened to you and put them in chronological order as well as the seasons of the year.

      Yes, I suppose you can, I said and was taken with an idea. Say, since you like to write I don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping me. I really could use some firsthand inside information about prison life.

      Like what? she asked.

      I smiled. Like telling me the meat is at twelve o’clock and the gray mush at six o’clock is mashed potatoes.

      She laughed.

      All you have to do is jot down some notes that you think would be of interest to me. I’d be only too happy to pay you for your time.

      That would be great, I always wanted to take a cruise to Bermuda, she said sardonically.

      Sorry, I said, I didn’t mean to offend you.

      No offense taken, she said. This is one place where money has no value.

      What about spending it in the commissary on magazines or chocolate bars?

      She shrugged. I guess I could do that.

      Or, I suggested, I could bring you in something that you want.

      Could you bring in books for our library? she asked eagerly.

      Her request surprised me. Sure thing, I said. I have loads of books at home that I’ve been meaning to clear out of my apartment. You’d be more than welcome to them.

      She smiled and said, How will you manage to get the notes that I write?

      I thought hard for the moment. Is there someway that we could meet again?

      On Mondays I work in the laundry and Tuesdays I clean floors, but Wednesday would be good. I’m assigned to the library on Wednesdays. We could meet in the library providing Warden Bernard doesn’t object.

      I smiled. I don’t think she’d object, especially if I’m donating a bunch of books to your library every time I come, do you?

      What kind of books would they be? she asked with interest.

      Let me think now, I frowned. Majority of them would be classics, some mystery, and some poetry.

      In her blue eyes a sudden spark of light clearly shown. Do you have any books on gardening? she asked.

      No, I’m afraid I don’t. I live in an apartment.

      "It’s just that I used to like gardening and I miss it.

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