A Crafty Christmas (19 page)

Beatrice marveled at her granddaughter's rendition of “Silent Night.” The child could sing. Where did she get that from? And what's more, to have the courage to stand up in front of a whole church full of mostly strangers? My, my, my. Tears pricked at Beatrice's eyes. Jon knew it; as if by psychic connection, he placed his arm around her in a comforting gesture.

She leaned into Vera's ear. “We need to get her voice lessons.”

Vera waved her off and smiled. But Beatrice would see to it. Yes, she would.

She mentally checked off all the things she had to do before tomorrow's bazaar. She thought she had it under control. But that Lizzy. Oh, sweet Lawd, what she did to Beatrice's old heart. Her brain couldn't think quite clearly enough right now. She was swimming in a glowing sea of grandmotherness.

After the show, the preschool had cookies and drinks for the family members. As Beatrice took in the crowd, she noticed only a few families she didn't know. But everybody looked at least a little familiar. She was certain if she asked some of the folks she didn't recognize, she'd at least know their people.

“Nice tree,” Jon said, tilting his head in the direction of a completely white tree with red ribbons tied around it.

“I prefer natural trees,” she said. “Who ever heard of a white tree? Besides I like my Christmas to smell like Christmas. And that includes having a live pine tree.”

“I like any color tree, especially my pink one,” Vera said, coming up beside her mother.

“Hmph,” Beatrice said. “Where's Elizabeth?”

“She and Eric are getting more cookies. You know, I think she likes him.”

“Too bad that Bill couldn't make it,” replied Beatrice.

“I know, Mama, and it's getting to be more and more like that. He doesn't seem interested in this kind of thing. He had to administer a test or something today. Last day of classes.”

“Hmph. Well, it was sure a nice little concert,” Beatrice said, not wanting to dwell on the missing father of the year.

Beatrice and Jon then said their good-byes and went home. As they were walking, tiny little flakes of snow began falling.

“Just lovely,” Jon said. “I love the snow here.”

“Me too,” Beatrice said.

When they rounded the corner, she noticed a couple of men standing at her gate. One had his hands on his hips and was looking up and down the sidewalk.

“I know who that is,” she said.

“Now, Bea, let us comport ourselves,” Jon said.

“Comport? The FBI comes to my house with false information—”

“Hush, my love,” Jon said, holding up his finger to his mouth. “It wasn't their mistake. It was the cruise security error. Be nice.”

They walked up to the gate and opened it.

“Can I help you?” Beatrice said.

“I'm—”

“I know who you are,” Beatrice said. “What do you want?”

“We wondered if you have the time to answer a few questions,” one of the agents said.

“I do—but not much. It's a few days until Christmas, you know.”

Jon moved ahead and unlocked the front door, letting the group stream in to Beatrice's Victorian house.

After they were situated in her living room, one agent asked her if she had kept the death report she'd received the day they delivered it.

“No, sir. I threw it in the trash where it belongs,” she said, trying not to be too bitter or brusque sounding, which was a challenge to be sure.

“Have you put the trash out for the local authority?”

“Yes, he came yesterday and carried it all away.”

“I was afraid of that,” one of them said.

“Did you happen to read it at all?” the other man said.

Beatrice thought a moment. Did she? “No, I don't believe I did. What's the problem?”

“There may have been some discrepancies on the two reports. We're following up, investigating Ahoy Security,” one explained.

“It's about time someone investigated them. Do you know the chief of security thinks he's a vampire?” Beatrice said.

One man coughed; the other's jaw clenched as if he was trying not to laugh.

“No, ma'am, we did not.”

Sheila had just sat down on her couch when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” Steve yelled in at her.

She heard the sound of the door opening. “Detective Bryant,” her husband said. “How can we help you?”

Bother! What was he doing here? She only wanted to sit and enjoy her Christmas tree.

“Can I talk to Sheila?” she heard him say. Damn, she'd had enough questions and lawmen to last a lifetime.

“She's right in here,” her husband said.

“Sheila,” Bryant said.

“Detective Bryant,” she replied. “Please sit down. Can I get you anything? Water? Soda?”

“No, I'm all right and I'm here on business, actually.”

“What kind of business?”

“I need to ask you a few questions about this Allie person who was on the cruise you were on.”

“What? I thought this was behind me. I'd rather not talk about it.”

He pulled out a photo. “Is this your scrapbook?”

“Yes, it is. Am I ever going to get it back?”

“You've got more to worry about than getting your scrapbook back,” he said.

Steve sat down next to Sheila and put his arm around her.

“I do?”

“After you left Florida, an FBI agent died,” he said.

Sheila, stunned and wondering what this had to do with her, said nothing.

“They ascertained quickly that he had been poisoned the same way the other two victims had been. With ricin. Have you ever heard of that?” Bryant asked.

“I may have,” Sheila said after a moment.

“It was in the news a few times,” Steve added. “But what's this got to do with Sheila?”

“They finally figured out the murder weapon used on Allie and Harold because of this agent collapsing from the same thing,” Bryant said.

“Weapon? You said it was poison. I don't understand,” Sheila said, flustered.

“Your scrapbook is filled with ricin. As far as we can tell, anybody who touched it has been killed,” Bryant said.

Sheila gasped. “What?” Her favorite scrapbook! The one she poured her heart and soul into! The one she'd been so hungry to get back! How could it be poisoned?

“How can that be? Sheila handled it and she's fine,” Steve said. “Right, honey?”

She nodded. “I made it right here in my basement. But I sent it off to the judges and didn't see it again until after I boarded the
Jezebel
.”

“Did you touch it after you were on board?” Bryant asked.

Sheila thought a moment. Did she? It was in a plastic envelope. Did she take it off before she gave it to Allie?

“I, ah, can't remember,” she said.

“What do you mean you can't remember?” Steve said.

“Well, I . . .” She swallowed hard. “It was wrapped in a plastic sleeve or envelope or something. I don't remember if I took it out or not before I handed it to Allie.”

“Think, Sheila,” Bryant said.

“I'm fairly certain I never took it out of the envelope,” she said.

“Fairly certain?” Bryant prompted.

She nodded, her heart racing and sweat starting to prick at her forehead.

“You don't look well,” Bryant said.

“Well, I—”she started to say.

“Look, I know this is harsh news for you,” he said. “My job is not an easy one sometimes, Ms. Rogers. But I have a search warrant for your house and a crew outside to perform the search.”

“What are you looking for?” She couldn't think. Her thoughts swirled around in her head. None of them made sense.

“We're looking for ricin,” the detective said.

“In my home? You think that I . . .” She trailed off as Steve placed his hand on her leg.

“You're more than welcome to look through our home. You won't find any poison here,” Steve said. His voice was flat and strong. It was soothing to Sheila.

“You can say that again,” she said.

“And yet your scrapbook was loaded with it.” Detective Bryant stood. “I'm sorry. I need to let them in.”

Sheila watched as Bryant opened the door and a group of people dispersed throughout her home, decorated to the hilt for Christmas.

“Depending on the route of exposure, such as injection, as little as five hundred micrograms of ricin could be enough to kill an adult. A dose of that amount would be about the size of the head of a pin. A much greater amount would be needed to kill people if the ricin were inhaled or swallowed,” the voice on the other end of the phone reported.

“What about touching it?” Annie asked. “What about through the skin?”

“You'd get a nasty redness, maybe a rash. But how people get poisoned, of course, is touching it and then eating with their hands. Or licking their fingers as they flip pages or something. Then it's a matter of time.”

“How long?” Annie asked.

“Depends on how strong the dose is. I've seen people who have died within two or three hours. But they ingested a huge amount of the stuff.”

“Okay,” Annie said. “Thanks, Frank.”

“No problem,” he said. “If you have any other questions, give me a call.”

Ricin.

Annie could hardly believe that the police had searched Sheila Rogers's home for ricin. Of course, they didn't find anything. And of course, Sheila was a nervous wreck, although relieved that they didn't find poison in her home.

Annie began leafing through a pile of mail and papers.

Here were the death reports she wanted to see. Both of them: the first one and the final one. She sat them side by side on her kitchen table and compared them. Only a few differences existed in them: the names and addresses being the biggest. The type appeared the same; one wasn't aligned with the form boxes as well as the other. Maybe the printer was off a bit.

But something else was off. She looked at each from the bottom up, comparing the two documents. She had learned to look at documents like this from the bottom up from a professional proofreader. It scrambled your brain enough to make you pick up on things rather than your eye slipping over it.

There. There it was.

Odd. That was an awfully big disparity between the two reports.

Could be a typo. God knows the ship's security team was careless. But she didn't have to be careless. She picked up the phone.

“Bryant.”

“Hey, it's Annie,” she said.

“I know that,” he clipped. “What can I do for you?”

She explained the discrepancy she found. “What do you think?”

“I think Ahoy Security has more explaining to do. I'm going to check into them a little further. You know, I have those same reports and didn't notice that. Thanks.”

“What does it mean?” Annie persisted.

“I don't know,” he said. “I don't know if it means anything different from what we already know, which is that someone messed up the report.”

“I think it means something else, but I'm not sure what,” Annie said.

“When you figure it out, let me know,” he said, and paused. “It's not really my case or my business, but I keep thinking there's a link between the threatening note and this. And I don't think Shelia Rogers is a killer.”

Annie breathed a mental sigh of relief. You could never tell about Adam Bryant. He went about his job in a cold, calculating manner most of the time. He was not easily read. When he didn't don the detective mask, in his personal life, he had no control over himself.

“Does the FBI?” Annie said.

“I have no idea what those guys think. I imagine they are investigating Ahoy as well. I might be able to find out. But I do know that Sheila is a person of interest, not a suspect. At this time.”

Annie's stomach twisted.

“Frankly, I don't think anybody would be paying that much attention except that one of their guys was killed. One of their own,” he said.

“But that Allie woman was a pretty famous scrapbooker,” Annie said.

“Famous scrapbooker? What the hell does that mean to most people?”

“But she was the one killed. Maybe the others were accidents.”

“Or maybe the scrapbook was really meant for Sheila,” he said. “Maybe someone wanted to kill her.”

Annie sucked in the air. Why hadn't she thought of that possibility? “Who would want to kill Sheila?” she said more to herself than to him.

“Maybe the same person who left the note? Nobody dislikes her? How can you go through life and not make an enemy or two?”

“Well, apparently she did—that Sharon Milhouse.”

“Yep, but I lost her. I can't find her anywhere. She was released earlier this year. Her husband is now dead, so we have no idea what went on there. Nobody knows where she's at. I've called her caseworker, left several messages. Maybe I'll give her another call.”

“Can you let me know? We're so concerned about Sheila. She's taking this so personally,” Annie said. The more she thought about it, the more she thought it was ridiculous that Sheila might have been the intended victim.

“I can't make any promises,” Bryant said. “But I will try.”

The phone call left Annie with a feeling of lightness. She and Adam had really sorted it out and it hadn't gotten personal. Maybe there was hope that they could put the awkward feelings behind them and have some sort of professional relationship.

When she thought about the fact they had almost had an affair, it made her cringe. It also made her grateful that she was strong enough in her commitment to Mike that she could stop herself from acting on that base attraction to Adam Bryant.