A Crafty Christmas (11 page)

Annie checked on the brisket, the scent of which was filling the house. It was browning nicely. The boys and Mike were out for a while, so she decided to look up Harold Tuft's wife, Sharon. It was disappointing. She seemed to have led an exemplary life; no arrest records. But that didn't mean much when it came to murder—the human condition continued to fascinate. The woman she was writing about, Mary Schultz, who killed her father, was not someone you'd think of as a murderer. She'd never done anything illegal her whole life. She simply snapped one day and chopped her father to pieces.

Gruesome. And scary. How far was the woman pushed to lead her to that moment?

So Annie went back to her passenger list to see if Sharon Tuft was on it. There were three Sharons, but none of them were Tufts. Annie returned to her computer and tried to find a record of Sharon Tuft's maiden name, and there it was: Milhouse. Sharon Milhouse was on the passenger list. Annie's stomach clenched.

She picked up her cell phone to call Vera. She was unable to get through once again.

So she tried to text Vera instead.

Send.

Annie had no idea that it would be so difficult to reach her friends on this cruise. It was kind of maddening, but they'd be back by midweek, in time for Beatrice's Christmas bazaar and then for Christmas itself the following week.

Annie shut off the computer and grabbed her purse, remembering that she needed to pick up more potatoes. She bundled up in her coat, hat, scarf; it was cold outside and the last time she checked it was still snowing.

The cold met her with a punch when she walked out of her house. She lived close to the grocery store, about two blocks, but it was so cold that she thought for a moment about driving. But by the time the car warmed up, she could be at the store, so she walked, with the new-fallen snow soft and powdery beneath her feet. A smoke scent filled the air as she walked down her block. Several houses were using their fireplaces or woodstoves and smoke curled from their rooftops.

Annie wrapped her scarf tighter around her face. Dang, it was cold. One more block to go.

A halfhearted snowman was in the yard of the Jenkins family, which made Annie smile. This was not a good snow for building. It was soft and airy, giving off little sparkles when light hit it in a certain way. The skies were completely overcast—moonstone gray.

Annie smiled as an older couple passed her on the sidewalk, right before she turned into the grocery store parking lot. Walking down the aisles of the store, she heard someone call her name and turned to find Beatrice with several bottles of wine in her hand.

“How do?” Bea said. She looked distracted. Maybe annoyed. Annie was getting good at reading Beatrice.

“I'm good. Just picking up more groceries for tonight,” Annie said.

“Oh yes, Hanukkah. Well, have a good one,” Bea said.

“Thanks. How are you and what are you up to?”

“I'm okay. Heading over to this committee meeting. I'm hoping some wine will calm them all down,” she said, and clicked her tongue.

“Good luck with that. What do you hear from Vera?”

“I talked with her a couple of hours ago. She seems worried about Sheila.”

Annie nodded. “But what about the murder investigation?”

“Investigation?” Bea said. “There really won't be one until the FBI gets on board tomorrow. That ship's security team doesn't have their act together.”

“I sent Vera the name of Harold Tuft's ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse. She's on the passenger list,” Annie said.

“What about the ex-husband?” Bea asked.

“He's in jail for embezzling from Allie's company, so he's not involved at all.”

“Mercy,” Beatrice said. “Do you think a woman could have killed them both?”

“If there's one thing I've learned over the past few years, and more so now that I'm writing about the Schultz case, it's that women are very capable of murder,” Annie said.

“I think you're right,” Bea said after a moment. “I've always thought there might be more of them out there than what we know. Women are smarter than men and don't get caught.”

That statement sent chills through Annie.

As Beatrice walked to the library, carrying her brown paper bag with wine bottles clunking against one another, she noted that the snowfall was picking up. It didn't look like a thing had been done to the streets or sidewalks to clear the snow away. Good thing she had her boots on.

Milhouse. Now, why did that name seem so familiar? She sifted through her brain. She couldn't think of one person whose name was Milhouse. Yet the name felt like it was one that she knew. Ah, well, chalk it up to old age. You couldn't remember everybody you met in eighty-four years of living.

Beatrice loved the library. It was one of the newest buildings in town, built in 1985. The old library was now an office building full of lawyers and architects. The new library was light filled and bright; Beatrice never liked dark libraries, other than the fact that they held books in them.

She walked into the meeting room and everybody was there, for a change.

“Let's get this shindig going, shall we?” she said, and set the bottles of wine on the table.

After the meeting, two emptied wine bottles later, the women gathered their paper and pens and handheld devices holding their calendars and important numbers, chitchatting as they moved along. Beatrice hated the chitchatting. If she didn't love this town's history so much and feel so strongly about feeding the poor, she'd not be involved with this bunch at all.

As she walked out of the library, she was surprised by how much snow had fallen. As it was getting darker, the snow took on a blue cast. She glanced off to the right, at the heart of Cumberland Creek, which was snow-covered and twinkling blue.

“Hey, Beatrice,” she heard a male voice say.

It was Detective Bryant. They said he'd gotten another job in Charlottesville and would be leaving town soon. She didn't know and she didn't care enough to find out.

“What?” she replied, pulling her scarf in closer around her neck.

His mouth twisted. “We need to chat.”

“About what?”

“About this scrapbooking cruise.”

“What? Why does that concern you?”

“I really can't tell you that right now,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I mean, they are heading for Grand Caymen. You're in Cumberland Creek,” she said, baffled.

“I know that, Beatrice,” he said with a bite.

“Watch your tone, young man.”

He smirked. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What do you want to know?” They fell in walking together toward Beatrice's dusty rose Victorian home.

“I know someone won a prize—”

“It was Sheila,” Bea said. “A very prestigious prize.”

He nodded. “A prestigious scrapbooking prize?”

“Why, hell, Bryant, I don't know anything about scrapbooking, but they say it's a top honor.”

“What's your sense of these folks, these, ah, scrapbookers? Is it highly competitive?”

Beatrice chuckled. “I doubt it. I mean, it's made of women who are making scrapbooks about their families. Why would it be competitive?”

“No, I'm not talking about those scrapbookers. I'm talking about scrapbooking as a business.”

“What are you getting at, Bryant? What has happened?” Beatrice asked impatiently.

“All I can say is this cruise has more links to Cumberland Creek than Sheila Rogers,” he said. “And now that there have been two murders . . . and then this other thing came up. I'm just trying to make sense of it.”

“What other thing?” Beatrice asked.

“I can't tell you right now. But what I can say is that it leads back to Sheila. If you can, please tell them to be very careful.”

“Careful about what?” Beatrice persisted.

“Look, Beatrice, I can't tell you,” he replied.

“You can't expect me to tell them that without answering questions. Questions I can't answer,” Beatrice said, “because you won't tell me.”

“You're one of the smartest women I know,” he said, after a few beats. “You must know that there are some things I can't share.”

Beatrice warmed and smiled, allowing the tension between them to subside. She knew she was smart—but it was good to know he knew it, as well. But what he didn't have to know is that she wasn't going to give up so easily.

“Care to come in?” she asked him.

They stopped in front of her house.

“I have cookies,” she said, and grinned.

“Oh man, Bea, you know I'd love to, but I need to get going,” he said.

“Well, hold on, Bryant. I'll get you a bag—you can take some cookies with you. Spirit of the season and all that.”

He twinkled. Bryant was a man who enjoyed food. Particularly sweets.

Beatrice went into her home and noticed Jon at the kitchen table. “I'm making a goodie bag for Bryant,” she said.

Bryant was coming up behind her. “Oh man, it smells so good,” he said as she pulled out the cookies and began placing them into the bag. “So rich.”

“That's Vera's recipe. She loves her chocolate,” Beatrice said, and handed him the bag. “Now you going to tell me what's going on?”

He grinned and raised one eyebrow. “I can't tell you anything,” he said. “But I can tell you that you should check in with Steve Rogers.” She let him have the bag of goodies. “He can tell you whatever he wants. He's a private citizen.”

“Steve?” Beatrice's blood started to race.
What could Sheila's husband know?

“If I were a single man on a cruise ship and not scrapbooking, where would I be?” Vera said as she leaned back into her lounge chair. It was after lunch and they had all gathered at the pool, each one of them with outrageously expensive fruity alcoholic drinks in their hands.

“You'd think most of them would be scrapbooking. After all, this is a scrapbooking cruise,” Sheila said. “There's a man I keep seeing everywhere. He seems unattached. He's been to every activity I've been to.”

“The next time you see him, you should find out a bit about him,” Paige said, fixing her floppy hat on her head.

“I most certainly will not,” Sheila said. “I'm here for the scrapbooking, not the sleuthing. The only thing I care about as far as all this is concerned is getting my scrapbook back. I'd like to see them bring the murderer to justice, but that's not my business.”

“You know, Sheila, you're right. None of us should be involved, least of all you. You need to focus on making connections for your career. Leave the rest up to us,” Vera said.

“Oh Lord,” Sheila said, and rolled her eyes. “Please leave well enough alone. Would you?”

A beautiful young woman walked by in a white bikini. Eric perked up.

“You know, if I were interested in women on this cruise, I think I'd be right here at the pool—or maybe at one of the lounges,” he said.

“Ya don't have to ask me twice,” Paige said. “I'm willing to circulate a bit and get out of the sun. I've had it. I want to get to the crop around five and I've got a couple hours to kill.”

“I'll come with you,” Randy said.

“No,” she said. “You better stay here. I don't need my son tagging along while I work my magic.” She winked before taking off down the deck.

Randy sat back in his chair, astonished. “Well, I never!” he mocked.

Vera laughed the loudest. “Stick around, Randy. Your mother is quite a character.”

The ship jiggled around a bit. Vera grabbed on to Eric; the rest of them grabbed on to their chairs. Sheila closed her eyes for a moment. Her head still ached, though the drink seemed to be helping a bit. When she opened her eyes Vera was scanning the crowd.

“What are you looking for?” Sheila asked.

“I'm looking for single men,” Vera said. “I think I found one. The guy over by the diving board. You see him sitting there?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “What are you going to do?”

“You just watch me,” Vera said.

Sheila watched her old friend walk to the other side of the pool as Eric looked on, horrified. Vera, at the age of forty-four, was still a stunning woman, with her heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, and high cheekbones. As she walked by the man in question, she dropped her bag, with her things scattering everywhere. He rose from his chair to help. The next thing Vera knew, he was getting her a drink. She cozied up next to him, pulling her chair close to his.

“I'm not sure I like this,” Eric said as he watched, his chest puffing out a bit.

“Calm down,” Sheila said. “She's prodding him.”

“He doesn't know that,” Eric said. “I don't like how he's looking at her.”

“You don't own her, doctor,” she snapped. “She can talk to whomever she wants to talk to.”

Silence. Randy scootched around in his chair with discomfort.

“I know you don't like me, Sheila,” Eric said. “I've tried to ignore your snide remarks. Your eye rolling.”

Sheila sat up as a sudden wash of embarrassment came over her.

“I think Vera has enough room in her heart for both of us,” Eric said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

She didn't know what to say. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her face felt hot.

“It's not that I don't like you,” she said after a moment. “I'm not used to husbands and boyfriends hanging around. Mine doesn't. Bill didn't. There's family time—then there's girl time. I don't know why you're always hanging around.”

His eyebrows knit.

“I don't mind having you around sometimes, but give Vera room to breathe. Allow her to have time with her friends,” Sheila said.

“I'm sorry. I'm crazy about her,” he said, and glanced in Vera's direction. “She's never complained about my tagging along.... In fact I think she's always invited me.”

He looked crestfallen and Sheila wished she had never opened her mouth.

“She probably has invited you,” Sheila said. “But you don't need to accept every invite.”

Randy turned the page of the magazine he was pretending to read.

“You know I'm crazy about you, too,” she said, reaching out and patting his hand. “Don't pay any attention to me. I'm probably being a selfish old coot. I love her, too. She's my best friend.”

Sheila's cell phone buzzed. And then so did Eric's.

“We must be getting close to land,” he said.

Sheila picked up her phone and read Annie's text: Harold's ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse, is on the passenger list. Your killer?

How odd. She'd known a Sharon Milhouse in college. Now, she had been an odd bird. Surely it could not be the same person she went to school with. A wave of panic gripped her as a memory of Sharon hit her hard. Sharon had been madly in love with Steve. In fact, she had been Steve's girlfriend when Sheila and he met. When they broke up, Sharon had tried to kill herself. Sheila had felt so sorry for her at the time, but later, when she and Steve started dating, she began to get death threats. They were never able to prove it, but everybody, including the local police, assumed it was Sharon.

The Sharon Milhouse of her college days on board the
Jezebel
? That was too much of a coincidence. Must be another one. Must be. Oh, she'd find out. Yes, she would.

“Are you okay?” Vera said as she approached the group. The boat rocked, making Randy spill his drink, just a little. He sat up to clean it. “You're so pale.”

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Sheila said.

“Is it your head?” Eric said.

She waved her hand. “I just got a text from Annie.” She read it to them: “Harold's ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse, is on the passenger list. Your killer?”

“Sharon Milhouse?” Vera squealed.

“What? Who is she?” Eric asked.

Vera explained.

“I'm sure it's not the same one,” Randy said with assurance in his voice.

“We need to find out. That woman was a hot mess,” Vera said.

“What did you find out from the mysterious man from across the pool?” Sheila said.

“His name is James Spangler,” Vera said. “He's an accountant from Oklahoma. This is his third scrapbooking cruise. Hard-core scrapbooker. He seems like a nice man,” she said.

“Don't they all,” Randy said, and sighed.

The shipped rocked harder, sending the pool water right over the edges of the deck. The lifeguards blew their whistles. “Everybody out of the pool!”