A Crafty Christmas (15 page)

Annie was cleaning up from a late breakfast when the phone rang.

“Hey,” Bea said on the other end of the phone. “I talked to Bryant.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he'd check into all of it and get back with us.”

“That's it?”

“Oh yes—he thanked me for the information about the strange man and car I saw last night. In fact, he seemed more interested in him than the note, really.”

“You didn't mention that to me,” Annie said, wiping the counter off with her dish towel.

Beatrice then explained what she had seen the night before. “Probably nothing, but with all the weird stuff happening, I thought it best to give Bryant the license plate number and let him know.”

“I suppose so,” Annie responded. “Will you let me know when he gets back to you?”

“If he gets back to me. He thanked me, was very polite, but made sure I knew this was police business.”

“Typical,” Annie said, but she knew he was right. Unless he needed more help from them, he had no obligation to fill them in on what was happening.

If she had time today, she'd try to sleuth around. But she was feeling a pull toward her art journal; if she had some free time, she wanted to work on it, along with her Hanukkah book. She was so thrilled that the scrapbooking supply businesses now carried many different kinds of Hanukkah materials. She loved the pieced-paper menorah kit she had purchased and the chipboard Star of David. And there was so much Jewish-themed paper that it was hard to choose. A few years ago, it was much harder to find anything relating to any other religion but Christianity. Cookie used to go off a bit about it—but Cookie was a Wiccan, an unconventional religion to say the least. Cookie sometimes used non-pagan paper and embellishments for pagan purposes. She relied a great deal on nature, celestial, and Halloween-themed papers.

Annie's heart sank. She still missed Cookie and wondered about her frequently. Whatever became of her friend who was wrongly accused of murder? She was probably one of the kindest people she'd ever met. Last year Bryant slipped her information that he knew that Cookie was fine and that was all he could tell her. That settled Annie's mind somewhat. She knew that Cookie had escaped from jail and was on the run—and that could lead to a number of dangerous situations. But she still yearned for her friendship and she knew the other scrapbookers did, as well.

“What are we having tonight?” Sam said, coming into the kitchen for a glass of milk.

“I'm making latkes,” Annie said. “Would you like to help shred the potatoes?”

He nodded. “Yep, I'm a good shredder.”

“I remember,” Annie said. “So I can count on you?”

He nodded and took a long sip of milk. “Why do I have to go to school tomorrow?”

“It's only a few more days,” Annie said, folding her towel and hanging it over the side of her kitchen counter to air dry.

“Yes, but it's Hanukkah,” he said.

“We've talked about this. Maybe someday we'll be okay with you missing school for Hanukkah, but not this year. You've already missed more days than you should because of the flu. School is important.”

“Someone trying to get out of school tomorrow?” Mike said as he walked into the room.

“Yep,” Annie said.

“But I don't understand why we have Christmas off and not Hanukkah,” her son said.

“You know what? I don't understand it either,” Annie said. “But it's just the way it is.”

She tried to shrug it off. Where she grew up, it was the same way, even in a heavily populated Jewish area. For children, school was the most important thing. Besides, her parents were secular and most of her friends' parents were, too. Hanukkah was not that big of a holiday for them.

“Poor boy,” Mike said with false sympathy.

“How about a cookie?” said Annie.

Sam's face lit.

“Did someone say cookies?” Ben said as he came bounding into the kitchen.

Annie watched her three boys sharing cookies in her vintage kitchen. She'd miss this tiny kitchen if they ever saved enough money to move.

Later, after the boys got involved in a game with their father, she sat down at the computer and found an e-mail from Vera.

Annie looked at her clock; the e-mail had been sent an hour ago.

Heckling Sheila? How odd. Sounded like another unbalanced sort was on the cruise with them. Poor Sheila. Why couldn't this scrapbook cruise have gone smoothly for her?

Annie clicked on the crime database and typed in “Theresa Graves.” A number of hits came up. The woman had quite the record: domestic violence, DUI, a drug arrest, and . . . attempted murder. Attempted murder? This was the woman heckling Sheila? Could she be the person who'd poisoned Allie and Hank? And what would she have against Sheila?

Annie grabbed her cell phone and sent Vera a text message. She hoped Vera received it before it was too late.

Beatrice was eating lunch when the phone rang. It was Detective Bryant.

“Well, twice in one day. Aren't I a lucky woman?” she said after answering the phone.

The detective laughed. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“Shoot.”

“What do you remember about Sharon Milhouse? About that time in Vera's and Sheila's lives?”

“Not much really,” she said after a moment. “It was such a busy time, with the girls graduating and so on. And I'm sure you know I didn't know half of what went on. But I do remember Sheila getting death threats and thinking they were from Sharon.”

“Did anybody prove that?”

“Not that I know of. But then again, Sharon was carted off to the Richmond Institution. So it was dropped. Ever find out what happened to her?”

“She's out,” he said after a minute. “I was trying to place her in Cumberland Creek, thinking maybe she left the postcard in Sheila's mailbox. You know, maybe she was trying to settle an old score.”

A chill traveled up Beatrice's spine. “Where's the woman now?”

“I'm working on that. She's not easy to find, which troubles me. I have no idea if this Sharon Milhouse on the cruise is the same one or not. I'm waiting to hear back from their security team,” he said. “Hell, she may be right here in Cumberland Creek for all we know.”

“Let's hope not,” Bea said. “Very few people have scared me in my life. But I remember the vacant, strange look on that woman's face and it frightened me.”

“If she's on the cruise, it could be a coincidence, right?” Bryant said, as if he was talking to himself.

“I'm not sure I believe in coincidence—or at least not as most people seem to see it,” Beatrice said after a momentary pause. She was reminded of what Albert Einstein said: “Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.”

Does the unexpected only seem like a coincidence because we are unaware of the complex order behind it? Beatrice often pondered the “coincidence of a higher order,” which was based on connections that science was now beginning to discover.

“I believe in a certain order behind most events,” Beatrice said.

“We're in agreement about that,” the detective replied. “But every once in a while, something does happen that appears to be unexplainable.”

“In the short term, perhaps,” Beatrice said. She took a long sigh. So many questions to be answered in the universe and she was running out of time. She'd never answer all of them by herself. “So will you let me know what you find out?”

“It depends, due to the nature of privacy acts and investigations and so on. We'll see. But I appreciate your help. When you talked to Steve, was he able to think of anybody who doesn't like Sheila?”

“No. Sheila is well liked. But I can't imagine that
everybody
likes her. There has to be someone . . . besides that Sharon from so long ago. That's a long shot.”

“But it's all we have on the note,” Bryant said. “A long shot.”

Beatrice finished her sandwich after they hung up. From time to time, she really liked Bryant. But other times he was nothing but a pain in the ass and seemed like he had no compassion.

But when she had been poisoned, he'd helped her out—and thank goodness for that or else she might be dead right now. But he hadn't been very polite when he was questioning her about Cookie. In fact, he was downright rude.
Hmmm.
But maybe he had been frustrated. He knew something was going on and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. She smiled. He was right—even though she still had no idea what was actually going on with Cookie and her escape. The more the detective tried to understand it all, the more it confounded him. She knew how he felt.

She checked out her Christmas tree and noticed a gap in the trimming. She rose from where she was sitting and moved some ornaments around. Flipping on the stereo, she slid in a Christmas CD. It was Christmas, damn it! And she was going to get into the spirit of things and not dwell on Cookie. Nor did she want to dwell on what had happened on that cruise ship—or what could still happen. There was nothing she could do about it from here.

Maybe all she needed was a few cookies. That should do it; nothing like gingerbread cookies to bring on the Christmas spirit. She resisted smacking her lips together.

Sheila immediately knew something was wrong when the bus driver pulled up to the bus stop, which was right next to the dock where the
Jezebel
was sitting. Shiny black cars and about twelve young men wearing dark clothing and sunglasses greeted them. She and Vera exchanged an anxious glance as they got off the bus.

Matthew was in the midst of it. “Mrs. Rogers,” he said, stretching his hand out to her. She backed away and cringed—the man thought he was a vampire. The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that he could be the murderer of poor Allie and her boyfriend.

He noticed her shrinking away and tilted his head. “Mrs. Rogers, I'm not going to hurt you. FBI agents are here and want to talk with you. I told you they were coming.”

“Me? Why me?” she managed to say.

Vera's arm slipped around her.

“Because you were the person who discovered Allie's body,” Matthew said slowly, as if she were two years old.

“May I please come with her?” Vera asked.

Matthew glanced at one of the young men standing nearby. He must have been an FBI agent. He looked like he was about eighteen. How old did an agent have to be?

“Certainly, you can come with her,” he said. “Please follow me.”

He led them back onto the ship and two of the young men followed.

Paige, Randy, and Eric waved as the two of them looked over their shoulders one last time before boarding the
Jezebel
.

Grace Irons, the woman in charge of the scrapbooking cruise, joined them once they were on the ship.

“I'm so sorry for this inconvenience,” she said.

“No worries,” Sheila said. “I'm sure it won't take much of my time. I don't have much to say, really. But if I can help find out who killed Allie, I'm happy to share what I know.”

The group walked through the marble foyer with a huge cascading crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, then off to one of the side corridors to a room with a shut door.

“Mrs. Rogers,” Matthew said, opening the door and gesturing for her to enter. She did, followed closely by Vera.

A few people were already there, including a woman who smiled at Sheila and Vera as they sat down. Introductions were made. The officer in charge, a ruddy-complexioned man named Ron Pereles, asked for Sheila to tell them about the morning she tripped over Allie's body. She recounted her story.

“Mrs. Rogers,” Agent Melinda Walters spoke up.

“What were you doing up and running at that time of day?”

She shrugged. “I run every day.”

“But not yesterday or today?” she asked.

“I haven't been feeling up to it.” Sheila pointed to her head. “Mild concussion.”

The officer nodded.

“Did you think it was odd that Allie wanted to see your scrapbook again the night before she died?” Pereles said.

She thought a moment. “I was just so honored that she wanted to take another look at it. I've admired her for a very long time. So, at the time, I was flattered. But thinking back, I suppose it was odd.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I'm sure she had other things to do besides look at my scrapbook, which she had already seen once before.”

“I thought the same thing,” the agent replied.

Agent Walters cleared her throat. She held a pencil in her hand. Nobody else seemed to be taking notes. “Mrs. Rogers, can I ask you about Harold? When was the first time you saw him that night?”

“I saw him earlier in the bar. Then later in the hallway, after he had died.”

“What was he doing in the bar? Drinking? Eating?”

“He was having a drink with Theresa Graves.”

“You all should talk to that one,” Vera said.

“Excuse me?” the agent said to her, obviously charmed and trying not to smile.

“She was heckling Sheila during her photo class, rather loudly. Something ain't right with her,” Vera said. “And our friend Annie said she has a record.”

The agent smiled and crossed his arms.

“People don't heckle on my scrapbooking cruises,” Grace Irons said.

“She did. You can ask anybody who was there,” said Vera, as if it were the juiciest bit of information.

“I don't believe it!” Grace said, then looked at Sheila. “Is this true?”

Sheila felt the blood rush to her face as she nodded. “It was so embarrassing. I don't know what made her do it.”

“What was that woman's name again?” Agent Walters asked.

“Theresa Graves.”

“She was seen talking with Harold right before he was killed?”

“Yes, she said they were friends,” Sheila said.

“What else did she say?”

“Well . . .” Sheila took a deep breath and mentally sifted through that night. “They both had been crying. He didn't look well at all and she said he was very upset because of Allie's death. They were . . . close friends. But he left when I arrived.”

“How long were you with Theresa?”

“Maybe an hour. We had dinner and I left.”

“And who is Annie?” Agent Walters asked. She was one of those women who made the other women in the room feel inadequate. Drop dead gorgeous, with a tight-cropped short haircut and a face right out of a magazine. Plus, her intelligence was easily sensed.

Sheila explained.

“Mrs. Rogers, please take my card, and if there's anything else you can remember, please call,” Walters said, and handed her a card. “In the meantime, your discretion would be appreciated, ladies.” Sheila noted the beautifully manicured, clean, short fingernails.

“Well,” Vera spoke up. “We may have some other leads for you.”

It was like a scene out of a TV show. All of them stopped what they were doing and looked at Vera. Sheila elbowed her.

Vera waved her off and went on. The woman loved an audience—and she had one. “Since we knew it was a murder and had been talking to our friends back where we live in Cumberland Creek, Virginia, we came up with a plan, you see, to try to find out who the killer was.”

“Why?” Agent Pereles said. “Why would you do that?”

“For one reason,” Vera said.

Oh, she's good. And she's loving every minute of this
, Sheila thought.

“For our own safety,” Vera concluded.

“Why would you think you're not safe? I don't understand,” the woman agent said.

“Well, the security on this ship is mighty lax, if you ask me. They told my mother that Sheila was killed—”

“Yes, yes, we know about that. It was a mix-up with the report.”

“I still don't know how that happened,” said Matthew Kirtley—the first time he spoke during the entire meeting.

“So we decided to come up with our own list of suspects. Knowing that most killers are men,” Vera said, ignoring him.

Sheila took a closer look at Matthew. He appeared so normal.
How could he think he's a vampire?

“Is that right?” Agent Pereles smiled.

“Everybody knows that,” Vera said. “Now, we narrowed it down to the men who are not traveling with their wives.”

“Why is that?”

“Most killers don't travel with their wives,” Vera said.

Sheila noted that the agents were stifling laughter. “So, we've been looking for these guys and found a few,” Vera went on.

“What was your name again?” Agent Walters asked, carefully taking notes.

“Vera Matthews,” she said. “Do you need that list from me?”

“No,” Agent Pereles said. “We'll be able to get that information. But thanks so much for everything.”

Vera grinned wide. Sheila rolled her eyes.

The gentlemen in the room shifted around like they were getting ready to leave.

“One more thing,” Vera said. “There's this person named Sharon Milhouse on board.”

“Yes?”

Sheila paled and bit her lip.

“I have no idea of it's the same person we knew in college, but we knew a Sharon Milhouse who tried to kill Sheila's husband and also sent threatening notes. She was sent to the Richmond Institution. We've seen her name on the roster, but we can't seem to find her. I've been leaving her messages,” Vera said.

“Why?” Agent Pereles asked.

“We need to know if it's the same person, don't you think? If she's on board and has a history—”

“Thanks so much, Mrs. Matthews. We'll take it from here,” Agent Pereles responded.

“There is one more thing,” Detective Walters said. A few of the ship's crew stepped forward with scrapbooks in huge see-through plastic bags. Six scrapbooks thudded as they were dropped onto the table. Sheila sucked in a breath.

“Which one of those books is yours?” Pereles said.

Sheila stood and walked over to the other end of the long table and felt her throat clutch as she spotted her beloved book.

“That one is mine,” she said, first pointing to it and then starting to reach for it.

“Can't let you have it yet,” Pereles said. “Sorry. We only needed you to ID it for us. Thanks so much. You can leave now, ladies.” His tone was cold and dismissive.

“Wait. When will I get it back?” Sheila said as she was being shoved out the door.

“We'll get it to you when we're finished with it. It's evidence.”

“Evidence?” Sheila managed to say before the door shut. She looked at Vera and lifted her arms and shoulders in a huge shrug. “Evidence? In a murder case? My scrapbook?”

Vera laughed. “Crazy!”

Sheila wrapped her arm around her best friend since childhood. She couldn't imagine a life without her—even if she loved to “perform” everywhere she went.

“At least we know my scrapbook didn't go overboard!” Sheila said.

Vera stopped walking and grabbed Sheila by the shoulders. “Now that we know it's on board, maybe we can swipe it.”

“Yeah, right,” Sheila said. “Nobody says ‘swipe' anymore, by the way, old woman. And nobody is going to take that scrapbook away from the FBI.”