A Crafty Christmas (14 page)

Annie was putting the finishing touches on her manuscript. At least she hoped she was finished. She liked to let it sit a few days and then go back over it, fact checking and looking for grammar mistakes and spelling errors. Then she'd fix it up, let it sit a few more days, and go back over it yet again.

She drained her second cup of coffee. Should she have another? Hmmm. Probably not.

Her computer buzzed. Good thing she was at the kitchen table and not in her bedroom.

“Good morning, Annie.” First a voice and then two faces appeared on the Skype screen: Vera and Paige, who looked awful.

“Good morning. You two are up early.”

“Early breakfast today and off to explore Grand Caymen. Thank God we are going to be on land for a few days,” Vera said. “Paige is sick.”

Paige nodded and whimpered.

“Sea sick?” Annie asked.

“She'd been drinking and got sick and hasn't gotten any better. The waters have been a little rough.”

“Sorry, Paige. You do look awful,” Annie said.

“Thanks,” Paige mumbled.

“What's up?” Annie asked.

“Listen, I read the text you sent to Sheila about Sharon Milhouse,” Vera said.

Eric passed by in the background, then backed up and waved. He looked a bit tan and very relaxed. The trip was doing someone good. Annie waved back.

“And?” Annie said.

“And I'd like you to see what you can find out about her. I mean, even get Bryant involved if you have to,” Vera said.

“Why?”

“She used to be nuts. I'm sure she still is. If that's the same woman, we need to know it.” Vera took a breath and then filled Annie in on the background.

“Don't you think she'd be over Steve and Sheila by now? I mean, it's been twenty years,” Annie said incredulously.

“I wish,” Vera said. “There were some things that happened that Sheila never knew. Things we didn't tell her.”

“We?”

“Bill, Steve, and I,” Vera said. “We thought it was best to keep some things from her.”

“Why would you do that? I don't understand.”

“I don't want to go into this over the computer, but suffice it to say the woman was committed because of her actions. I'm not exaggerating her illness.” Vera took another deep breath. “I think it would be best if we knew if she was on this ship.”

Paige harrumphed, then said, “You know Sheila; things like this would wear on her. She's scared enough as it is. I mean, she's really not acting like herself. We're worried about her.”

Annie thought a moment. “I promise to try to track down this woman. I'll text you to let you know what I find out. But if I find out anything, you're going to have to tell Sheila. She's a grown-up and she can handle it.”

But she, Bea, and DeeAnn had decided not to tell her about the note left on the door of her home. “Wait,” Annie said. “Maybe you're right. With her concussion and everything else that's going on, let's leave her out of it until she gets safely home.”

“She's getting very paranoid,” Vera said. “I don't think she's eaten more than a bite of toast since yesterday.”

“Well, we all are,” Paige said. “I spoke with a couple of the men on our list yesterday—Colton and Hank. I think we can cross them off the list.”

“Same with the guy I talked with. He's a hard-core scrapbooker,” Vera said.

“That leaves what—six other men?” Annie said.

“I'll get back to it when I feel better,” Paige said.

“We'll keep our eyes open,” Vera said.

Eric poked his head onto the screen. “We need to go ladies. Bye, Annie,” he said.

“Bye,” Annie said. The screen faded out.

Annie saved her file and decided to search around on the Internet for more information about Sharon Milhouse. Over one thousand of them lived in the US. How to hone that down? What was the name of Sheila's school again? Sweet Wood University.

Annie keyed in “Sharon Milhouse” and “Sweet Wood University.”

An article popped up from a Richmond newspaper's online archives:

Holy Shit! Did Sheila know about this? Or was this what Vera was talking about?

Annie's heart raced and she read further on. Sharon had been housed in the Richmond Institution and would probably remain there for life.

Life? Maybe this Sharon Milhouse wasn't the one on the ship. It couldn't be the same one; the Sharon Milhouse who was married to Harold had certainly been a free woman. Unless . . . unless Sharon had gotten out early and married.

Damn, she couldn't get into those records. If they had to do with medical issues at all, Annie was out of luck. But maybe Bryant had access to them.

She hadn't seen him or talked to him in a while. He'd been seeing a young police officer from a neighboring town and was too busy to hang out with Mike—thank goodness—and there were no other recent murders in their little town. She hated to call the man. In fact, the thought of it turned her stomach.

She'd call Beatrice later. Perhaps Beatrice could call him and explain the situation. Perhaps. Bea didn't like him any more than Annie did. But at least she hadn't had the somewhat personal experience with him that Annie had. Experience she was quite ashamed of and wished she could erase from of her life.

Beatrice poured the pancake batter onto the griddle. She made pancakes every Sunday morning, but today she added gingerbread spice to the batter and the scent was filling the kitchen as Jon walked in.

“What are you making? It smells divine,” he said, coming up behind her and kissing her on the cheek.

“Gingerbread pancakes,” she said.

“And Christmas music is playing.... Have you gotten into the Christmas spirit, dear?”

Beatrice harrumphed. “Lord knows I'm trying.”

“Still worried about the cruisers?”

She nodded, flipped her pancakes, then told him about what Bryant had mentioned to her last night.

Jon grabbed a plate and set it next to Bea for the pancakes.

“Bryant thinks it's related to the cruise?” Jon asked.

“I think he's just grasping for anything. It was a creepy postcard.”

“I think you all made the right decision to not tell Sheila. She has enough on her mind right now. More coffee?”

Bea nodded. “I'd like that.”

Jon made another pot of coffee and Beatrice scooped her pancakes from the griddle onto the plate.

“It's really strange—we can't think of who might have done something like that to Sheila,” she said. “Maybe she gets on people's nerves about the scrapbooking. God knows it drives me crazy.”

“Why? It's something that she loves, so why does it bother you so much?”

Beatrice thought it over a few minutes, fussing over her pancakes. “I don't mind scrapbooking. You know, keeping your family's memories in a book. I've made several of my own. Not with any of that newfangled stuff. It seems to me that folks go overboard with it. And Sheila has built her life around it. I get tired of hearing about it, I suppose.”

“Hmmm,” Jon said. “Maybe Sheila doesn't like to hear about quantum physics.”

Beatrice laughed. “No, I'm sure she doesn't. But who does? I'm used to nobody being interested in my thing.”

“I'm interested.” He grinned.

“Yes, I know—” She was interrupted by the phone ringing.

Jon answered the phone and handed it to Beatrice. “It's Annie,” he said.

“Sorry to bother you so early. I know you're probably in the middle of your pancake breakfast,” Annie said.

“I'm just now making it. What's up?”

“I Skyped with Vera and Paige this morning and Vera was really concerned about this possible connection with Sharon Milhouse.”

“Now, why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Maybe because she was convicted of trying to kill Steve Rogers.”

Bea's heart jumped. “Oh my,” she said, her mind flicking through the memories. “I do remember that.”

“Anyway, they called to ask if I can find out anything about her. I was able to pull up old newspaper reports and criminal records, but she was sent to the Richmond Institution, which isn't even open anymore. And since she was determined to be mentally ill, I can't access those records.”

“Neither can I. What can I do to help?”

“Can you call Bryant and explain the situation?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot; I need to call him about something else. So yes, I can call him. But why don't you?”

“I'd rather not. It's Hanukkah and I don't want to spoil my day. You know how I feel about that man. And it's not exactly a professional inquiry.”

Beatrice suspected that she'd never really know what had gone down between those two. At first it seemed like they despised one another. Then he became a friend of Annie's husband and it seemed they reached some kind of friendly understanding about their relationship. Then it went sour again about the same time as Emily McGlashen's murder. Beatrice didn't like to pry. But it was the oddest thing.

“Well, none of us really like the man,” Beatrice said after a moment. To say that he was abrasive would be putting it mildly. But Beatrice had seen traces of a real human being beneath his tough-guy exterior from time to time, like when Vera was having problems sleepwalking. “But he's a good cop. I think he might appreciate this information and might want to help out.”

“I hope you're right. You know it may be nothing. But Vera is very concerned,” Annie said.

“She should be,” Beatrice said. “Sharon Milhouse was a total freak. If she's on that ship, knowing that Sheila is, too, there could be problems.”

“Surely not,” Annie said. “That was years ago. Besides, she's probably still in a hospital somewhere.”

“I'd not count on that,” Beatrice said. “If she is the woman who was Harold's ex-wife, I'm sure she'd have killed both Allie and him and not batted an eyelash. She was that sick.”

“Maybe she's gotten better.”

“One would hope. But so many times I've seen that there are some people who are beyond help. I wish that wasn't the case.”

Jon had taken over the pancake making and now had a stack of golden brown pancakes on the table. Beatrice's stomach growled.

“I'll call Bryant later,” Bea said. “I need to eat my breakfast.”

“Later,” Annie said.

Bea sat down at the table and recounted what Annie had told her on the phone.

“Sounds like a good lead,” Jon said, cutting his pancakes up.

“Maybe,” Bea said. “But if that's our Sharon Milhouse and she's on a ship with Sheila? Our friend is in very real danger.”

Poison. Murder. Vampires.
It was all swirling around in Sheila's mind as she led a group of forty people off the ship to where a bus waited for them. Her legs felt strange and wobbly as she adjusted to ground after being on the sea for several days.

Paige's skin still had a slight green tinge to it and even with a few days of sun, her long legs were white and looked unstable. “Jesus, it's hot,” she said.

Randy fanned her for a few minutes with his guidebook.

Eric's arm slipped around Vera, who was looking over the crowd. She appeared nervous. Sheila knew she was wondering if the killer was around.

Once again, Sheila found herself wondering how many of the passengers knew that the untimely deaths were actually murders and not accidents. The ship had never called them such in any of the announcements. But Sheila and her friends knew—only because she had tripped over Allie's body and then had the misfortune of witnessing Harold in the hallway.

Sheila looked right and left before she spotted the bus across the street. The port city of George Town was awash in color, noise, and scent, which was jarring after being on the sleek cruise ship for days, mostly colored in whites and shades of blue. Their bus was waiting for them right where it was supposed to be.

“Sheila Rogers?” The bus driver met her with an extended arm and a lush Caribbean accent.

She nodded. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and extended her own hand.

Their schedule had changed again. The plans originally included three days here, but since they'd lost some time because of the storm, their stay was shortened to a day. And Sheila's prior research had all been done for a Mexican photo shoot, not Grand Caymen, so she was winging it. But she was able to sneak a bit of research in on the botanical gardens they'd be visiting during their photo excursion. It would make for fabulous scrapbooking material.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” a tour guide said to them after they were all settled on the bus. “Welcome to Grand Caymen.”

“Thank God it's air conditioned in here,” Paige said in a low voice.

“Our beautiful island is seventy-six square miles and is home to fifty thousand residents,” the guide said after everybody had settled and the bus began to move around the edge of the city.

It was even more beautiful as they left the city behind and drove along the coast. Sheila sat back and took in the view of white sandy beaches giving way to lush trees and rolling green hills.

A sudden image of Cumberland Creek came to her mind—she wondered if it was still snowing there. It was December, close to Christmas, and it felt unnatural to be here in the heat and the tropical weather.

“I love the heat,” Randy said, as if reading her mind. “Doesn't bother me a bit. I could live in the tropics.”

Paige sighed.

“I love the seasons,” Vera said from across the aisle. “I couldn't live someplace where it was warm all year long.”

“We'll be at the Queen Elizabeth Two Botanic Park in about fifteen minutes,” the guide said. “This heritage attraction was officially opened on the twenty-seventh of February, 1994, by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the second and named in her honor.”

“This should be gorgeous,” Randy said. “I'm so excited about this.”

“One of the things the park is known for is our blue iguanas, a rare species. You should be able to get a view of them this morning. They like to sun themselves in midmorning,” said the guide.

“They are in cages, right?” Vera suddenly asked.

“We have an enclosed habitat that provides a natural home for an adult male blue iguana, which can be seen by visitors.”

Vera sat up taller and her eyes widened. But it wasn't because of the tour guide's statement. Sheila followed her eyes. It was hard to see because of the bus seat, but Sheila observed what Vera saw: the man who had been staring at Sheila throughout the trip. And he was with Theresa Graves, which was interesting, as he seemed a lot younger than her. Oh well, to his or her own.

But was he her husband? Sheila tried to remember if they had talked about her husband. A sourness formed in her as she remembered how discouraging Theresa had been and how David himself of David's Designs had no kind words about her. Sheila was fascinated by the competitive nature of these huge scrapbooking business owners. Couldn't everybody get along?

Vera's eyes met Sheila's and she tilted her head in the couple's direction. Sheila nodded.

When they disembarked from the bus, Sheila took over and led the group to the visitor center. They all had real cameras draped around their necks. She was happy that nobody was there with cell phone cameras. The guide from the center gave them a quick orientation and they were off.

First stop: the “color gardens.”

The pink garden's collection consisted of rose and green caladiums, Anderson Crepe hibiscus, Cordyline morado, and exotic large bromeliads including Aech-mea Victoria.

“Keep the sun in mind when you are shooting these flowers,” Sheila said. “Make sure it's at your back.”

“Like we don't know that,” came a voice from the back, and a group of people giggled.

Sheila ignored the jab.

“We have about ten minutes here and then we move on through the rest of the colors,” Sheila said.

Vera eyed her and then leaned in. “Did you hear that?”

Sheila nodded. “Who was it?”

“Theresa,” Paige said, interrupting. “She's got a group of some of the most negative people I've ever heard. They are all laughing and joking, but I don't see them taking pictures.”

Sheila shrugged. ‘You get all kinds,” she said.

As they moved through to the red gardens, a young woman asked her if she had ever made a garden scrapbook.

“I haven't,” Sheila said. “I'm not much of a gardener. But I have customers who have made garden scrapbooks. Really lovely.”

“I've made a few myself,” the woman said. “I inherited this old rose garden with our house and I'm fascinated by the shapes and colors of the roses. The way at different times of the day the light makes the pink roses look almost orange, sometimes yellow.”

“What an interesting observation,” Sheila said.

“Not really,” came that same voice, and then more laughter.

A shot of anger tore through Sheila. “If you'll excuse me for a moment,” she said in her most polite voice to the woman, who had reddened.

Sheila made her way easily to the back of the crowd where Theresa stood with her gaggle of friends.

“Are you having a good time?” Sheila asked, concentrating still on trying to be polite, but allowing her eyes to shoot daggers.

Theresa's posture changed a bit—she wasn't expecting Sheila to seek her out, to face her. She didn't answer, but simply looked at the man standing next to her, the man who had been freaking Sheila out the entire trip.

The others looked in Theresa's direction, expecting an answer.

“Yes, of course,” Theresa said.

“Good,” Sheila replied as sweet as she could muster.

Theresa shot her a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

What the hell had Sheila ever done to the woman?

An uncomfortable hush came over the group.

“Well now, Ms. Fancy Pants scrapbooking diva bitch, I think you should either shut your mouth or find another tour group who will put up with your nonsense. We're here to learn from Sheila Rogers,” a voice said from behind Sheila.

It was the woman who had been discussing her roses. A stunned silence came from the group as Theresa reddened and huffed off in anger. Vera and the others applauded.

Sheila took the rose lady's arm. “Thanks so much,” she said. “Now, let's get down to business, shall we?”