A Crafty Christmas (13 page)

Beatrice's theory about the killer maybe having a partner held no water at all, as far as Annie was concerned. Murder was a lonely business.

“If the killer has a partner—let's just say
if
—then the partner is in Cumberland Creek,” DeeAnn said, setting down her scrapbook with a thud.

“Sorry, Bea, that makes no sense,” Annie said. “Most killers don't work with partners, for one thing. For another thing, I doubt that Sheila has had time to butt in to any investigation on the ship. It pains me, but I agree with Bryant on this.”

“Now, hold on,” Beatrice said, after finishing one of the chocolate peanut butter cupcakes. “I know I've read about couples who kill.”

“Yes, I've read about them, too. But let's not get carried away,” Annie said. “Let's look at the facts.”

“Sheila trips over a dead body on the ship,” DeeAnn said. “Fact one.”

“A woman she barely knows,” Annie added, then sliced a photo in the cutter.

“The woman was poisoned,” Beatrice said. “Then her boyfriend was poisoned.”

“Both of them officially still married to other people,” Annie said.

“That right there tells you this has nothing to do with Sheila,” DeeAnn said, waving her hand.

“Other than the fact that she stepped into the middle of it, it has nothing to do with her,” Annie said.

“So you think the note is some weird coincidence,” Beatrice said.

Annie nodded. “The note came from someone in town.”

“Who on earth?” DeeAnn said. “I don't understand who would write something like that to Sheila. I don't know anybody who doesn't like the woman.”

They sat for a few minutes, listening to the music and scrapbooking, each with their own thoughts. Who didn't like Sheila? Annie had no idea. Now, if it was her getting the threatening note, she could think of several people, starting with any member of the Schultz family, who didn't like the fact that she was writing a book about the murder. Any of the people who had attachments to the New Mountain Order would also like to see Annie leave town.

“What are you thinking?” Beatrice interrupted her thoughts.

“Thinking about all of my potential enemies,” Annie said, and grinned.

Beatrice shrugged. “Well, you and me both.” She cackled.

“But not Sheila,” DeeAnn said. “Oh, that's a fabulous page, Annie!”

Annie held up her Hanukkah book: blues and golds, candles and flames. She'd found some Star of David embellishments, which she used on the page where she had several photos of her boys lighting the menorah. She'd taken photos without the flash so the flame and the hands were the only things shown in the picture. The Star was at the center of the page with the photos on each pointed end. It did look pretty good, Annie mused. Her final touch was the overlay that said “Day 1” on it.

“I love the colors of Hanukkah,” DeeAnn said. “What's the meaning behind them? Anything?”

“I don't know, really,” Annie said. “Some say the colors come from the Israeli flag. The flag's blue stripes symbolize those found on prayer shawls that are worn at synagogue, bar or bat mitzvahs, and Jewish weddings. That's about all I know. What about the red and green of Christmas?”

“Hell, who knows?” DeeAnn said. “I'm not a big fan of Christmas anymore. It was fun when my girls were small. Now, it's all about work. The bakery keeps me hopping right up until Christmas Eve. I swear if I was open on Christmas, I'd have folks coming in.”

“I always thought that the blue and white of Hanukkah had universal association. You know, purity, peace, light. That kind of thing,” Beatrice said.

“Sounds good to me,” Annie said. “I'll take that explanation.”

“Well,” Beatrice said, getting up from her seat, “now that I've eaten all the cupcakes, I need to get home. It's late for me. And you two have been no help at all.”

“Sorry, Bea,” DeeAnn said.

“I'll feel so much better when they get home. I don't like any of this business. I don't like cruises and I don't like my daughter being on one. And this cruise's security is a big mess. I can't allow myself to think about it too hard,” Beatrice said.

 

 

Damned fool of a daughter, sailing off on a cruise right before Christmas. Beatrice had told her not to go. But it was as if all sense had recently left Vera's brain. Her dance studio usually produced
The Nutcracker
every year, but not this year. Vera said she had been thinking of not doing it anymore and when the opportunity to go on a cruise for free came up, that settled it.

“It's a struggle each year,” Vera said. “I've decided to focus only on recitals every year.”

“For how much longer?” Beatrice had asked her.

“For as long as I can,” Vera replied.

But Beatrice knew that Vera had been thinking of calling it quits. Her dance studio had never completely recovered from the Emily McGlashen episode. She had gone on a campaign against ballet and stolen many of Vera's students. Only a few returned after Emily's death. Many of them now made the trek to Charlottesville to continue with their Irish dance studies, leaving Vera and her beloved ballet in the dust.

But beyond all that, Vera was evolving once again. Beatrice watched, awestruck, as her daughter picked up the pieces of her life without her husband and with a new baby and more than simply survived, but flourished. She'd scaled down her business, but was still able to make a profit.

Then there was Eric, the new man in Vera's life, whom Bea approved of. Finally, after years of Bill being a pain in the ass, there was a man that Bea liked. She was surely glad that she'd never met Tony, the man Vera had dated briefly who lived in New York.

Beatrice never liked walking the streets after dark—even the streets in Cumberland Creek, which had relatively very little crime. Dark streets were no place for a lady, she mused. And there were not many streetlights in Cumberland Creek; people didn't want them. Once when she was walking in the dark, she nearly tripped over a cat that was lounging about on the sidewalk.

As she approached the corner of Ivy and Oak, there was a big streetlight that threw its light halfway down the street. She liked that. She walked by her neighbors' houses and noted many of them already had their lights out. It was late, even for a Saturday night.

She marched down the street to her front door and noted a man walking toward a car on the other side of the street. She had never seen him before; maybe he was visiting someone. She opened her gate and walked into her yard, deciding to sit for a moment on her front porch. The man was opening the door of some kind of fancy red car.
Ain't that something?

She noted his black leather jacket—the way it shined as the little bit of light on the street played off it. She caught a glimpse of his face in a momentary slice of light. He had a goatee. Beatrice always hated facial hair. She twisted her mouth. He might have been a decent-looking man if it weren't for that damned beard. There was something about his stance that Bea didn't like either. He was trying too hard to be cool.

Her brain clicked into action as she remembered what Bryant had said earlier in the day.

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

She reached into her bag and jotted down the license plate number. Few strangers came to Cumberland Creek, though it was not unheard of, of course. But you couldn't be too careful.

She shrugged. He most likely was a visitor, but even so, it couldn't hurt to check him out.

One thing was for certain—she had his license plate number. That could be a very good thing.

“What are you doing out here?” Jon said as he walked onto the porch. “It's cold.”

“It is cold. I never minded the cold,” Beatrice said. “I love looking at the snow at night.”

“Come inside. I made some hot cocoa,” Jon said.

She smacked her lips together. “And that's why I love you so much. You make a mean hot cocoa.”

As she walked into her home, the car pulled away. Its headlights briefly lit up the street. She tucked the license plate number into her bag. She'd call Bryant in the morning after a good night's sleep.

Sheila tossed and turned. She couldn't get her last conversation with Steve out of her mind. He wanted her to come home, which was sweet and maddening all at once. He knew how important this trip was to her. He'd never even asked about her meetings. So frustrating! Would he ever recognize her need for more than a family? He mouthed it all the time. He seemed proud of her. But when it came to really taking it seriously, did he?

Up until this point, she had tried not to care. It didn't matter how he felt. She'd forge ahead. But what did that say about their marriage?

She sat up, flicked the light on, and sat on the edge of her bed. How to get to sleep? If she were at home she'd make herself some warm milk with cinnamon, nutmeg, and a drop of honey. Sometimes bourbon. But she'd drunk her weight in gold already and was not hankering for booze at all.

She could call room service—but the idea of a stranger coming into her room in the middle of the night unsettled her.

She glanced at the clock: 1:18
A.M.
Which of the closest cafés or restaurants were still open? She dressed in her running clothes and headed out the door.

When she walked into the all-night café, she was surprised by the crowd. Didn't anybody sleep anymore?

“What can I get you?” the man behind the counter asked as she approached.

“Warm milk?” Sheila asked.

“I've got just the thing,” he said. “Milk with vanilla and cinnamon sound good?”

She nodded. “Sounds delightful.”

“Please have a seat and I'll bring it to you.”

She searched for an empty table and, much to her surprise, she spotted Randy alone, eating. She sauntered up to his table. “Why, hello there,” she said before she realized how upset he was. “Are you okay? Do you want to be alone?”

“Oh . . .” He waved his hand. “I'll be fine. Just feeling sorry for myself. Please sit down.” He was eating a huge bagel with cream cheese. “I'm so hungry,” he mumbled.

“I can't sleep,” Sheila said. “I'm here for warm milk. I thought you had a hot date tonight.”

He wiped his face with a napkin. “Hmph. I did. I'm no good at the dating thing. I was much better in a committed relationship.” He took a drink of water. “Sometimes I miss him more than other times. Night time is hard. We used to, you know, talk about our days, our dreams. I miss the companionship.”

Shelia reached out and touched his hand. “It will get better,” she said.

Looking up, she spotted the creepy guy. sitting just beyond Randy. He was there with Rhonda from Life Arts, who draped herself over him in a most unattractive manner. Every now and then she kissed him or reached up and touched his face or hair. The man appeared completely disinterested.

“This dating business,” Randy said. “I am reminded what a lousy judge of character I am. Whew, boy.”

“What do you mean?” She turned her attention back to Randy. Rhonda and the creepy man were disturbing to watch.

“I thought Matthew was cute, sure. But I also thought he'd be interesting, him being a security chief and all that.”

“Not interesting?”

“If you call crazy interesting . . .”

“What?”

“Yes. Very odd. I'm not sure how he holds it together to do his job. It's troubling,” he said. “I've been sitting here and thinking things over. I can't think of a way to soothe myself about it. There's been two murders on board and the chief of security is nuts.”

“Surely not,” Sheila said.

He nodded vehemently. “Listen, I don't like to judge people. But that man is bat shit crazy.”

It was a bit odd to be sitting here with Paige's only child, who looked and acted a good bit like his mother. He said things like Paige, with the same inflections. But this “crazy” business troubled Sheila. They sat next to a window that looked out over a clear night sky. She glanced out at the horizon, then back to Randy, trying not to watch Rhonda make a fool of herself in public.

“What exactly do you mean?” When the server brought her milk, she looked up and said, “Thank you.” After the man left, her attention focused back on Randy. “Well?”

“I don't want to scare you,” he said.

“As if I'm not scared already. And a bit beat up,” she said, smiling and pointing at her head. “I think you should tell me.”

He sat back in his chair. “Okay, but let's keep it between us, for now.”

She nodded. What could it be that had him so troubled?

“He thinks he's a vampire,” he said.

“What? Who?”

“Yes, the chief of security thinks he's a vampire,” Randy repeated. “He was quite serious about it. Scared the bejesus out of me.”

She was struck speechless. A vampire?

“What do you say to that?” Randy continued. “And that was my first date after breaking up with a brilliant, creative man. Just my luck.”

“I—I—”

“Yep,” he said.

Sheila took a sip of her milk. The warmth and the sweetness comforted her as she mulled over the news.

“Needless to say, I told him I was not interested in dating a vampire—or even having a fling with him. But I did look up vampires on the Internet and there are people who claim to be vampires out there. People who actually drink blood,” he said.

“Seriously?” Sheila said.

“Yes, some people are into this vampire lifestyle—and I hope that's what our friend is talking about. But there are also some serious psychiatric problems associated with people who claim to be vampires, people who crave human blood,” he said, with a low voice.

“He reports directly to the captain,” she said. “I can't imagine he hasn't picked up on this.”

“Oh, he doesn't tell everybody, of course; it's a secret that he bestows on a lucky few.”

“Aren't you the lucky one then?” Sheila said. Suddenly a giggle erupted from her. She couldn't even try to stop it.
Oh, it wasn't funny
, she told herself,
stop.
A man responsible for the safety of the ship might be bat shit crazy.
Not funny at all.
She tried to stop her laughter.

But Randy's eye caught hers and the next thing she knew, they were both laughing uncontrollably.

Tears ran down Randy's face. “Oh my God,” he said, finally calming down. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

Shelia took a deep breath and settled herself, suddenly feeling tired. She took another sip of her milk. “I'm not sure,” she said. “But I have a new goal: just to get off this ship in one piece.”

Then it hit her with a startling thud. Her face must have reflected her thoughts.

“What?” Randy said.

“If the man thinks he's a vampire, then he might think he needs to kill to survive.”