A Crafty Christmas (12 page)

Since moving to Cumberland Creek, Annie had been forced to consider her spirituality, looking deeper into her life for meaning, not simply the outer trappings of being Jewish. So tonight, when she lit the menorah and sang the prayers, she felt it. A hush came over her boys. Their eyes were solemn. It gave her surprising joy. Oh yes, this was worth not going on the cruise.

After the dishes were done, Annie began to gather her scrapbooking things, but then sat at her table and wrote more in her new art journal instead. For the first time in many years, she felt truly inspired.

It was odd; she was a writer and in the midst of a book. But if she were honest with herself, that kind of writing had become a slog. It was a job. This, this opening up on the page through journaling and painting, it was inspiring and addictive. The next thing she knew, she was kissing the boys and Mike good night and heading off to meet DeeAnn at Sheila's place, where the group met every Saturday.

DeeAnn was standing out on the door stoop waiting for Annie.

“I know Sheila said we should do this, but I feel kind of weird about being here without her,” DeeAnn said.

Annie shrugged. “I get it. Do you still want to go in and give it a go?”

“Well, now that you're here . . . I guess it would be okay,” DeeAnn said.

When they entered the basement it felt very different without Sheila's music already playing, Vera's humming, and Paige's laughter. But it was more than that, really. Annie was jabbed once again with a pang of missing her friends.

“They will be back soon,” DeeAnn said, and placed her things on the table.

Annie did the same. Then she reached over and turned on the stereo. The sound of Justin Timberlake filled the room.

“Love me some Justin,” DeeAnn said. “Hey, happy Hanukkah, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Annie said, sitting down. “Look, Sheila left us snacks.” Plastic bowls with lids sat on the table, filled with pretzels, chips, and nuts. “Wasn't that sweet?”

“I brought some cupcakes,” DeeAnn said, and placed her container on the table.

“Ah, what kind?” Annie said.

“Peanut butter with chocolate icing. A new recipe,” DeeAnn said.

After they settled into their scrapbooking and eating, Annie got up and reached into the fridge for a beer.

“So what do you hear from our friends?” DeeAnn said, looking up from her new scrapbook project. Her aunt had recently died and DeeAnn was working on a memory album that celebrated her mother's life.

“The last I heard they were making their way through the list of unattached men on the cruise,” Annie said, sitting back down at the table.

“What? Why?”

Annie explained their working theory.

“I guess it's a good place to start,” DeeAnn said.

“It will keep them occupied, I suppose. But you know as well as I do that a woman could be the killer, especially if poison was used.”

“I can see that. Harold's wife might think she has cause if her marriage was broken up by this affair.”

Annie pulled out her scrapbook and her new art journal.

“But no man's worth a prison term,” DeeAnn said.

“What do you have there?”

“I've been working on this book. It's kind of a journal, I suppose,” Annie said. She slid it across the table.

DeeAnn gasped. “Annie! It's gorgeous.” She ran her fingers over the cover, where Annie had embossed a gold Star of David, which was surrounded by words scattered in every direction, providing a collage of sorts. It almost looked like graffiti. She opened the book to Annie's painted page.

“How did you do this?” DeeAnn asked.

“I used the boys' acrylics.”

“There's a whole movement of art journalists now. Did you know that?”

“No. I was moved to do this. I love to scrapbook—but this seems like a more personal extension of it.”

“It feels that way to me as well. I've never tried this. You're so talented,” DeeAnn said.

“Speaking of talent, Bea says you're doing some baking for the bazaar,” Annie said, cutting out a photo of her grandmother's menorah.

“Yep. Anything to help Bea out. She's taken on a lot with that bazaar. Nothing she can't handle, but still.”

Annie grinned, thinking of Beatrice and the bazaar. “Should be fun.”

The two of them worked without chatting for a bit, listening to the music, pasting down photos and embellishments, and journaling.

“Where do you think they are right now?” DeeAnn said.

“Almost at Grand Caymen,” Annie replied.

“I'll feel a bit better with them on land for a day or two,” DeeAnn said.

“Yeah, me too,” Annie said. “It's been a very strange cruise. The murders. The storm. Communication fading in and out.” Annie took a deep breath and tried to settle her stomach. She tried hard not to think of all the dangerous possibilities on that cruise ship.

Armed with a box of cookies, Beatrice rang the doorbell of Sheila and Steve's home. It was a nice home; Steve had done well, as had Sheila. Beatrice had rarely been to the front door of their home. She usually entered at the basement door, just like the scrapbookers.

When Steve opened the door, Beatrice was taken back. She'd not seen him for at least a year. But he'd aged. Drastically.

“Why, hello, Beatrice,” he said, with a smile cracking cross his rugged, wrinkled face.

“How do?” she replied.

“C'mon in.”

She entered their home. It was immaculate, as always. Sheila was not like her mother in that regard. Gerty hated housekeeping and it showed.

“Can I take your coat?” Steve asked.

Well, she hadn't planned to stay that long, but it might be nice to visit with Steve a bit. She felt a sudden warmth toward him. Besides, she wanted to find out what Bryant had been talking about.

“Okay,” she said.

He took her coat and they sat together in the living room on the couch. The walls were decorated with photos and paintings done by their oldest daughter, Donna, a gifted artist.

“What do I owe this visit to?” Steve said.

“I figured you might be a bit lonely. And hungry,” Bea said, and handed him the box of Christmas cookies.

“Oh,” he said, excitement in his eyes. “Sheila's not doing any baking this year, so this is a treat.”

“What do you hear from her?”

“Communication has been sporadic at best,” he said, and scratched his chin. He needed a shave and a hot shower. “I've just gotten back from a trip.”

“You take hiking trips in the mountains during winters?”

He nodded. “This was the last one of the season.”

Steve had his own outdoor guide company and led fishing, hunting, and hiking expeditions through the Blue Ridge.

“That's crazy,” Bea said.

He laughed. “So they say. But it usually works out okay.”

He opened the box of cookies and a look of pure joy washed over his face. Nothing like homemade cookies to bring a man to his knees.

“So you know about Sheila falling and so on,” Beatrice said.

“I want her to come home,” he replied, examining the cookies. “There's been what, two murders now? I want her home.”

“I hear ya. Listen, I ran into Detective Bryant. . . .”

“Hmph,” he said, finally picking out a cookie. “You won't believe what's happened. I came home, exhausted, right? And there was this creepy postcard in the mailbox.”

“What kind of a postcard?” Bea asked.

“Someone had cut and pasted a note together. You know, like you've seen on TV or in the movies or something? It said ‘Die, die, die, scrapbook queen.' And it has something on it. Looked like blood,” he said.

Beatrice's heart raced. “Why would someone do that?”

“Good question. I wondered if she may have pissed someone off on the cruise, but Bryant wondered if she had any local enemies. There was no postmark on it. He thinks someone just shoved it in the box. I can't think of one person who doesn't love Sheila,” he said.

Spoken like a man in love with his wife. Of course there may have been people who didn't like her. But who? Beatrice felt her brows knitting. “I'll give that some thought.”

It was true that there was nothing to dislike about Sheila. Except of course for the scrapbooking craziness, which drove Beatrice nuts. It was a little over the top, with all the fancy embellishments and die cuts and so on. Memory keeping was one thing—hell, it was valid—but the way these scrapbookers went about it often rubbed Beatrice the wrong way.

But Sheila was one of those women who was always nice and polite and went out of her way to please people. A definite people pleaser. Other than Beatrice herself, she couldn't think of anybody who didn't like that type of person.

“Have you told Sheila about it?” she asked.

“Bryant asked me not to,” he said, and then bit into a gingerbread cookie.

“Hmph. I guess I can see that, but she might know who it is.” And so might the women in the basement, scrapbooking this very moment, if Beatrice calculated correctly.

“I best be going, Steve. If I think of anything, I'll let you know. Are you okay?”

“I was a bit shook up,” he said, getting her coat and handing it to her. “But I'm all right now, I suppose. I am worried about Sheila. She's on the high seas with a concussion and a killer. I ain't happy about it.”

“I hear ya. They will be home soon. Good night, Steve.”

“Night,” he said, and then shut the door.

Beatrice hightailed to the back of the house and peeked in the glass sliding doors. Yes, there was Annie and DeeAnn, both there with their scrapbooks in front of them. She opened the door.

“Bea, what a nice surprise,” Annie said, starting to rise from her chair.

“You might not think so once I tell you why I'm here,” Beatrice said, and then told them Steve's story about the postcard.

“I think we should tell Sheila,” DeeAnn said. “I'd want to know, wouldn't you?”

“But she's having a rough time as it is,” Annie pointed out.

“True,” DeeAnn said. “But I can't think of one person who would do such a thing.”

“Steve thought she may have stepped on someone's toes on the ship, butting her nose into the murder investigation,” Beatrice said. “Bryant said it was unlikely.”

“I agree. What are the chances?” Annie said. “I mean, who else on that ship even knows where Cumberland Creek is or even that it exists, let alone that Sheila lives here?”

The room quieted.

“A desperate person who thinks Sheila can finger them for murder would find out where she lives, right?” DeeAnn said.

“Yes, but that person is on the ship,” Annie said.

“Unless the killer has a partner,” said Beatrice.

“Well, here we are, cropping on a Saturday night. Who'd have thunk it?” Vera said, as she sat down at the crop table. It was their table; they camped out there, claimed it for their own and were able to leave their things there while they moved about the ship.

“Where's Paige?” Sheila said.

“She'll be here,” Randy said. “She needed a quick shower.”

“What?” Vera said.

“I think she was a bit tipsy,” Randy replied, with a grin. “I've never seen my mother tipsy.”

Sheila stifled a giggle. Paige was tipsy a lot—almost every Saturday night in Cumberland Creek. Clearly Randy hadn't lived at home for years.

Sheila stood and pulled out one of her cutting boards from her bag. “I'm eager to see if she found out anything. The more I think about being on this ship with a killer, the more freaked out I get. Steve too. I spoke with him a few minutes ago. He wants me to find the closest airport when we hit land and come home.”

“What? That's a bit crazy. This is such an important trip for you,” Vera said.

“He's just worried,” Sheila said, and shrugged. “I'm not going home. I'm leading a class tomorrow and I get my award tomorrow night.”

Vera placed her photos on her paper, then switched them around again. She sighed.

“Where's Eric?” Randy asked.

“He said he needed a break from all the scrapbooking,” Vera said. “I don't know where he is. He was in the room catching up on e-mails and some reading. He also mentioned a football game at one of the bars.”

Sheila's eyes caught Randy's and then quickly looked away. She felt like a fool. Ashamed of herself for butting in.

“It's good that he can be honest with you about needing a break,” Shelia said, and then checked out Vera's page. “I like that layout the best.”

Vera nodded and reached for the glue dots.

“I love those glue dots,” Randy said. “I never knew about them until this cruise. I can't believe how much I'm learning. And in one of the sessions I sat in the teacher talked about repositionable adhesives. Amazing.”

“I love playing with those,” Vera said. “But I did one whole book with the repositionable adhesive, then a year or so later had to go back and use the real stuff. I think it's not as good as the real stuff.”

“Ah, something to keep in mind,” he said, finishing up his page and sliding it into his book. He stood. “I'm off for my date.” He turned to walk away, as Paige entered the circle. He kissed her cheek and left.

“You're looking a bit peaked,” Vera said.

Sheila looked up from her page, filled with musical notes and violins and photos of her Jonathan. Vera was right. Paige did not look good. She had a green hue to her skin.

“I had a bit too much to drink,” Page said, and sat down. “And this ship has been rocking a lot.”

“I've never known you to get sick from drinking,” Vera said.

“There's a first time for everything.” Paige looked over her page from earlier in the day. “Drinking and rocking around the ocean don't mix for me. Lesson learned.”

“Poor dear,” Vera said, and patted Paige's hand.

“So did you find out anything?” Sheila asked.

Paige nodded. “I met two of the men on our list. Hank and Colton.”

“And?”

“I think it's safe to say that they are both here to get laid,” she said, picking up her doily and placing it onto a red scrapbooking page. “Of course, that doesn't mean they aren't capable of murder.”

“Did you get any weird vibes?” Vera asked.

“Yes,” Paige said. “But they were weird vibes of another kind.” She twitched her eyebrows and laughed.

Sheila giggled. “Okay, maybe we can take them off our list,” she said. “I still need to find Sharon Milhouse. I left a note on the message board. I hope it's not the one I knew before.”

“People can change,” Paige said. “I wouldn't worry too much.”

“Not that crazy woman,” Vera said.

But then an odd feeling crept over Sheila once more. Someone was watching her again.

She scanned the area as Vera and Paige laughed about something. And then she noticed him—the man who had been watching her throughout the trip. She caught his eye and he sneered. She looked away. Her stomach flipped around in her body and then squeezed.

She reached for Vera.

“What?” Vera said.

“Hush,” Sheila said, almost in a whisper. “That's the man I've been telling you about. The man with the orange shirt on and the glasses? Do you see him?”

Vera twisted and looked at him. “Should I call Eric? He looks kind of menacing. I can see why he worries you.”

“What the hell is Eric going to do?” Sheila snapped. “Beat him up? What are we, in middle school?”

“Well, what should we do?” Vera said.

Paige sighed, long and deep, her forehead in her hands. “I can't help you. I just can't. I still feel sick.”

Sheila thought a moment. “Let's keep our eyes on him. That's all we can do really.”

“It looks like he's married,” Paige said. “He has a ring on his finger. But I can't figure out which of those women he's attached to.” She had the best and closest view of him. “There is something very strange about him. I agree that we should keep our eyes on him.”

“What do you mean?” Vera said.

“I don't know what I mean,” Paige said. “Something about him doesn't seem right.”

“I agree,” Sheila said, setting down her photos. “I think he's wearing a wig, for one thing.”

“Yes!” Paige said. “But look around; there are a lot of men wearing wigs, even on this cruise. Women too. And let's not even talk about the fake boobs everywhere.”

“But maybe this guy's bald. A lot of bald men wear toupees,” Vera pointed out. “They are very self-conscious about their baldness.”

“Which I've always thought ridiculous,” Sheila said. “But it's not only the wig. It's his clothes, his stance, the way he's always watching me.”

“Maybe he has a bit of a crush on you,” Paige said. “You are one of the stars of the cruise.”

Shelia laughed. “I can't imagine anybody having a crush on me.”

She touched her head, which still ached. A crush? Oh my. She'd not had another man in her life for twenty-five years. Steve and she had married right out of college and started raising their family. If there was anybody who had a crush on her, she'd not have noticed. She was entirely too busy and focused on her family and scrapbooking. The thought of someone having a crush on her swirled around in her mind and she found herself giggling.