A Crafty Christmas (23 page)

Later, after roughly ten hours of observation, Sheila and her husband were escorted to the safe house, where their children were also harbored.

“This is the safe house?” Sheila exclaimed, when they pulled up to the house at the end of a cul-de-sac. “This is where Cookie Crandall lived!”

“It's empty and it's ricin-free,” Detective Bryant snapped. Once inside, the small house, he gestured toward a young woman with long stringy hair and glasses, standing in the kitchen doorway. “This is Vicki Crane,” he said. “She is your caseworker.”

“Hello,” she said, shaking their hands.

“Caseworker?” Steve said. “Why?”

“Procedure, any time people are removed from their home,” the detective said, and walked off as his cell phone beeped.

“What's going on here?” Sheila said, noticing her kids were sitting at the kitchen table—the only furniture in the place.

Vicki shrugged. “Your home isn't safe for you yet. So you'll need to stay here. I've arranged for more beds and clothes to be brought in. The beds should be here any minute. We'll bring some food in, as well.”

“When can we go home, Mama?” Jonathon found his mother's side and slipped his arms around her. “It's boring here.”

“We'll be bringing a TV in soon, as well,” Vicki said, and smiled. “Maybe you can go to the library and get some books and things.”

Jonathon looked horrified. He hated the local library.

“How long do you expect we'll be here?” Steve said. “I thought this was going to be a few hours.”

“Oh no, sir. Ricin is very dangerous. We need to make certain it's completely gone before you can move back in,” she said.

“That's just great!” Steve said. “First, my wife stumbles on a dead body in our basement, then we're told we can't go home. Jesus. Merry goddamn Christmas.” His hands were on his hips.

Detective Bryant came back toward them.

“Any luck with the road blocks?” Steve asked him.

“No,” Bryant said. Unshaven and baggy eyed, Bryant was a mess. He sighed. “Nothing. No word back yet from the health department either. I'm afraid you're going to have to make yourself comfortable here.”

Sheila's heart raced. “But it's Christmas in two days,” she said. “Will we be home in time for Christmas?” She couldn't imagine celebrating it anywhere else but her home, with her tree, her fireplace, and her things surrounding her.

“I doubt it,” Vicki said. “I'm sorry. You may be here for Christmas.”

Sheila sighed and walked away from the group, toward the big window on the back wall. She remembered this place. When Cookie was in jail, a group of them had come here to gather her things. It was spare then; now it had a table and some chairs in it, which is where three of her children were gathered playing cards. She couldn't imagine spending the holiday here. But she looked over at her kids at the table and realized it didn't seem to be bothering them at all. They seemed to be having fun. Jonathan was a bit bored, but maybe that would be resolved when the TV arrived.

She gazed out the window at the mountains. This was the view that Cookie had every day and it was the view that Annie had talked about. Annie had said she'd been back to this house several times since Cookie had left. She found peace here. Sheila didn't understand it—the place kind of freaked her out. Why would someone want to live with no furniture or no decorations at all?

The detective came up beside Sheila. She spotted him reflected in the window.

“Mind if I ask you some questions?” he asked.

“Probably not,” she said, turning to face him. “What now?”

“I know you've been through a lot the past week or so, but I'd like to ask you about Sharon Milhouse.”

She swallowed hard. “Why?”

“Her name keeps coming up as someone who might be a danger to you, and I need to verify a few things.”

This didn't make sense. Sharon Milhouse! Why now?

“I've got a lot to think about. What does she have to do with anything? That all happened so long ago.”

He looked away from her and pulled out his notepad, flipped through it. “You said there was a Sharon Milhouse on the cruise,” he said.

Her heart jumped. “I know that.”

“I have no way of knowing if it was the same one. Er, at least not yet. There doesn't seem to be any recent photos of her,” he said. “But there's something else you should know.”

“What's that?” she managed to say.

“A Milhouse has been checked in at the B and B since Tuesday.”

“Oh shoot, Jon!” Annie said as they started walking up Beatrice's sidewalk. “I forgot my purse. I'll go back and get it.”

Beatrice was standing on the porch. “Well, go on, the both of you. I'll have something to eat for you when you get back.”

“Jon doesn't need to go with me,” Annie said.

“It's getting dark. In case you need reminding, there's a possible killer on the loose,” Beatrice said.

“I can't believe I left my purse. I hardly ever carry one,” Annie said, and handed her phone to Beatrice. “Please keep hold of my phone.”

“What? Why?” Beatrice said.

“I took pictures of the guest book and there was a woman who caught me and was livid,” Annie said as she turned to go.

“Yes,” Jon said, following her. “She was so angry she followed us and tried to get the phone from Annie.”

“She must be hiding something,” Beatrice said, more to herself that anybody else since Jon and Annie had already rounded the corner.

“What's that, Mama?” Vera poked her head out the door.

“Annie asked me to keep her phone while she went to pick up her purse. She left it at the B and B,” Beatrice said.

“Mama?” Vera said, coming outside and standing beside her. “You don't look good. Is everything okay?”

Beatrice didn't reply. There was a familiar stir of worry in her, and she tried not to pay attention to it.

“Mama?” Vera said again, and placed her hand on Beatrice's arm. “Come inside and let's see what Annie has on her phone.”

That snapped Beatrice out of her trance and they walked inside the warm house together. They sat down on the couch and clicked on Annie's iPhone to see the names listed in the book.

“I don't recognize any of these names,” Beatrice said.

“Annie was probably right when she said the killer wouldn't use his or her own name,” Vera said.

Elizabeth came bopping into the room, looking for her crayons.

“Under the coffee table,” Vera said.

“Okay, Mama,” she said, and plopped down on her stomach onto the floor with a coloring book. She started coloring a page with Santa Claus on it. She was making his suit purple.
So creative
, thought Beatrice.

“Now, here's a name I recognize,” Vera said. “How odd.”

“Who's that?”

“Theresa Graves,” Vera said. “She's a big-time scrapbooker who interviewed Sheila for a job, then turned around and heckled her at the photography-scrapbooking session. What would she be doing here?”

“Look at the name underneath,” Beatrice said, pointing.

“Sam Milhouse.” Vera's breath nearly left her. “Could it be? I mean Sharon's husband? A son?”

Beatrice nearly jumped off the couch and ran to her phone. Bryant—she had to find him. Jon and Annie were heading toward trouble right this very minute.

“Cumberland Creek Police. What's your emergency?” the voice on the other end said.

She didn't know what to say or how to explain what was happening succinctly enough.

“
State your emergency please.”

“May I please talk with Detective Bryant? I think there's a killer staying at the B and B.”

“Who is calling?”

“Beatrice Matthews.”

“Ms. Matthews, this is an emergency line. I will connect you with Detective Bryant's office,” the operator chided.

“But this is an emergency,” Beatrice said to nobody, as she was already in phone limbo land.

“Detective Bryant's office,” came a calm and welcoming voice.

“This is Beatrice Matthews on Ivy Lane. I'd like to speak with him,” Beatrice said.

“Hold on, Ms. Matthews, let me see if I can find him.”
Hold on? Hold on?

A moment later the line picked back up. “I'm sorry. He's unavailable,” the ridiculously calm voice said.

“What do you mean?” Beatrice said, her heart thudding against the walls of her chest.

“He's out of the office on a call, Ms. Matthews. Can someone else assist you?”

Flummoxed, she said, “I don't know. You see, he's the one I know. He's the one who would know what I'm talking about. I think Jon and Annie Chamovitz are heading for trouble. They went over to the B and B and I think there's a troubled person over there.”

The woman on the other line laughed.

“Well, Mrs. Matthews, if that's the case, they are going to get a snoot full of police attention in the middle of the trouble.”

“What? Why?”

“Because as far as I know, that is where they went.”

“They?”

“Detective Bryant took a team over there.”

“For what?”

“I don't know the answer to that question, Mrs. Matthews. And even if I did—”

“I know, I know, you couldn't tell me anyway,” Beatrice said, and hung up the phone.

When Annie and Jon walked up to the bed and breakfast, she could have sworn a curtain moved. Probably that nut job of a woman who wanted her phone. Well, she didn't have it. Even if the woman searched her—and what kind of crazy thought was that?—she wouldn't find her phone. It was safely in Beatrice's hands. In any case, she girded her loins in preparation for seeing that woman again.

When Jon and Annie walked in, the door closed and locked behind them. Annie turned quickly and here stood the woman, stone faced, holding Annie's bag in one hand and a gun in the other. “I knew you'd be back,” she said with a strange, twisted grin.

“Put that thing down!” Jon said with such a thick French accent that Annie wasn't quite sure that was even what he said.

“Listen, Frenchy, in this country, the person with the gun is the boss. Now both of you head for the dining room,” she said. “And put your hands where I can see them. Not a word from either of you, or I will start shooting.”

No. This could not be happening.
Annie raised her hands as her eyes searched for a weapon. There was no way she could get to anything without being shot. Her head was throbbing, pulse racing.

“What do you want?” Annie said.

“I want your phone, then I want you to sit down in that chair. Your French friend there is going to tie you up for me.”

“Absurd. I will do no such thing,” Jon said.

The woman lifted her gun and pointed it at Annie. “I'll shoot her if you don't.”

“Do what she says.” A small voice came from behind her. Annie turned her head. “Elsie?” She was tied up, and sitting in the opposite corner. There was a dim light coming in from the kitchen, but the dining room was dark. Annie couldn't see if there were others behind Elsie. She knew there were other guests. Where were they?

“Where are the other guests, Elsie?” Annie asked.

“Gone Christmas caroling,” the woman said, and shoved Annie in the chair. “Won't they be surprised when they come back?”

Annie didn't answer.

“Give me your phone,” the woman demanded.

“I'm sorry. I don't have it.” She patted the outside of her pockets. “Check if you like.”

She did. Annie was surprised at the strength of her touch. And by the way her body was reacting to it. She shivered from fear and disgust. What was going on here?
Is this the woman who tried to kill Sheila? The woman responsible for maybe three deaths? For spreading poison in Sheila's basement?

“Where is it?” she hissed.

“I left it at Bea's,” Annie said. Her mouth was dry with fear.

“Tie her up with that rope on the floor there.”

Jon stood and looked at her, as if he didn't understand. He trembled, scared. Poor old soul.

“Move it!” she ordered.

Jon did as he was told. But he didn't tie the rope tight enough.

“Tighter!” the woman demanded.

Annie's arms already ached. Her underarms sweated profusely; she felt the moist heat as air entered the spot between her jacket and her arm. Jon yanked at the rope until her wrists were raw. “I'm sorry,” he said.

Annie nodded. Now that she was tied up, what could she do? What was this woman capable of? Rule one, if you are kidnapped or held against your will, is to talk to the person. Try to reason with her.

“I'm not sure what you want. Maybe we can give that to you,” Annie said, her voice shaking.

“Hmph,” the woman replied. “What I want is gone. Nothing you can do about that. I killed him. Her. Whatever the hell he or she was.”

The woman's face contorted, horrified. “I thought, finally, that I could be happy.”

“We've all been there,” Annie said, each word an effort now. Her body had been taken over with shivers. What did she mean “he or she”? This woman wasn't making any sense.

The woman was still pointing the gun at Jon. He was so pale that Annie thought he'd pass out any minute.

“But there's no man worth going to prison for,” Annie said, fighting off a sudden, overpowering sleepy sensation. How could she be so tired? Concentrate.

“Hallelujah!” Elsie shouted from the corner.

“I know that!” the woman said. “I took care of it. Thought it would be all right until you came along, Ms. Reporter.”

“Look,” Annie said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. “Just let us go and we'll forget all of this ever happened. Really. Just go back to where you came from, let us go, and we'll call it even, okay?”

The woman began to sob like a child. “I don't know, I don't know . . .” She kept repeating it. She was having a breakdown right before their eyes. But she still held the gun on Jon. “I thought he was so perfect. One cheating husband. Another man who turns out to be a disguised woman!” She held the gun up higher, still pointing it at Jon.

The look on Jon's face was scary, something between frightened and resolved. He was gathering courage to make a move. Annie hoped she was wrong about that assumption. But his jaw hardened. Annie held her breath.

“I don't follow,” Annie said.

“Sam! Sam's real name was Sharon. She used me to get to Sheila's scrapbooks. And to get into the security office on the ship. Fool! She dressed up as a man to fool me. I'm a fool!” she raged.

“Cumberland Creek Police!” came a voice from outside, toward the front of the house. “Come out with your hands up!”

The woman was shaking now. The gun still pointed at Jon.

“I'll shoot him!” she yelled. “Don't come in. I'll shoot him.”

“The hell you will,” Jon said, and lunged for her. At the same time her weapon fired. Jon fell to the floor with a thud.

“Jon!” Annie screamed, trying to get to him, rocking her chair forward, as the front door came flying open.

Later, Annie wished she had passed out, wished she didn't remember the sordid details with her trained reporter's eye. The details that would haunt her forever. She'd never forget the look on Elsie's face as the woman turned to her and shot her straight in the shoulder, then the sound of the chair and her body falling over. The scent of the discharge. Blood everywhere. And Annie's hands tied behind her back. She could do nothing.

She watched the police and medics as they swooped in over Jon and Elsie. One of the medics nodded at the other. They were both still breathing. Both still alive.

She watched as the formidable shooter was escorted out of the bed and breakfast, looking sheepish and deflated.

Detective Adam Bryant found Annie in her chair and didn't say a word. The look on his face spoke volumes. He untied her hands, himself shaking, his jaws taut with emotion held back.

“Christ, Chamovitz,” he finally said. “What am I going to do with you?”

It was then that she reached for him as he lifted her from the chair. She wilted into his arms, right when her half-crazed-with-worry husband walked into the room.