A Crafty Christmas (6 page)

Pancakes and eggs would be served for supper. The boys loved breakfast for supper, Annie mused. Tomorrow night would be brisket, from a recipe of her grandmother's.

While she was stirring her pancake batter, the phone rang.

“Hey, DeeAnn,” she said.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I'm about ready to start supper. You?”

“Taking a bit of a break at the shop. I saw an e-mail from Paige. What the hell is going on with that cruise? Someone was killed? We need to get them off that ship!”

“Calm down, DeeAnn,” Annie said. She pictured DeeAnn's face red with worry.

“They are on the ship with a killer,” DeeAnn said. “And guess what? I just saw a weather report that one of those freaky storms is heading for the Mexican coast. Right where they are supposed to be in two days. Oh Lawd, Beatrice was right. They should have stayed home.”

Annie's heart raced a bit. “Did you say a storm is heading for them?” She stirred her batter harder.

“No, it's heading for the coast where they're going,” DeeAnn said.

“I'm sure the cruise people know that,” Annie said. “I mean, they need to be watching the weather, right? That's part of what they do. Don't worry about that.”

DeeAnn sighed. It was a long and heavy sigh. “I just wish . . . if they had to go we could be there. We could at least provide some sanity. Sheila has a concussion. Vera and Eric are all disgustingly love struck, evidently, sneaking off to their room all the time. Are any of them paying attention?”

“C'mon. They know a killer is on board. But they are still trying to have a good time. Especially Sheila. Think of the opportunities,” she said.

DeeAnn was silent. “Poor thing.”

“I'm sure Vera and Eric will take care of her. And there is a doctor and medical facilities on the ship. There's nothing we can do for any of them from here.”

DeeAnn took a sharp breath. “I suppose you're right. I've got work to do. I guess I better get off the phone. Got in an order for twenty loaves of lemon poppy seed bread. Thank God people don't bake anymore. Keeps me flush, but it's exhausting. I'm starting to hate Christmas.”

Annie laughed. “Are we still getting together tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely!” DeeAnn said. “We'll crop till we drop in Cumberland Creek while our friends are on the high seas.”

After they hung up, Annie spooned the pancake batter onto her griddle and listened to the hiss, smelled the grease and butter as they came together.

She missed her friends—and that surprised her. They had only been gone four days. They had flown to Miami, hopped aboard the
Jezebel,
and headed for Saint Thomas. Their next stop was Mexico, where Sheila was expected to lead a scrapbooking-photography class.

She had thought about joining them, but she and Mike had made a commitment to spending the Jewish holidays at home with their boys. It was something Mike had when he was a boy and wanted to continue with his children. Annie's home life as a child was not as constant. Giving up a cruise with her friends was worth the harmony that she felt at home. There would be plenty of time, later, for travel. Though maybe not a cruise. She was sort of with Beatrice on this one. Cruises were low on her priority list.

She flipped the pancakes over and listened as her boys excitedly discovered that breakfast was for supper.

Later, boys in bed, her phone rang. It was Beatrice.

“How do?” Beatrice said when Annie answered.

Annie heard Christmas music in the background. “I'm fine.”

“What do you think about all this nonsense on the cruise?”

“It makes me a little nervous, but there's nothing we can do about it.”

Then Beatrice told her about the FBI agents visiting her, which infuriated Annie.

“Honestly! One hand doesn't know what the other is doing. And how could the ship's security make such a huge mistake?” Annie felt the hair on the back of her neck prick. Was it her reporter's intuition? Or a simple fear for her friend's safety?

“I agree. It's egregious. If they were paying for the cruise, I'd demand their money back,” Beatrice said. “But it's all free for all of them with Sheila's prize tickets—except the guys, I guess.”

“How's it going with your bazaar?”

“Good. I hope you come by. It's next Saturday. Hopefully, they will all be home by then. Lizzie misses her mama.”

“I bet. She can come over here tomorrow afternoon if you want.”

“Nah. her Dad's taking her for the weekend. Thank God he's finally getting it together and is not running around with young women anymore.”

“It's finally over with Kelsey?”

“She's back in jail. And I don't think he cares to see her.”

“I hope so,” she said, remembering what a blow that was to Vera and how disturbed the young woman was.

But then Vera had found love again with Eric, which was driving Sheila a bit bonkers. Say what you will for Vera's first husband, Bill, but he didn't hang around all the time like Eric did. He'd even come to some of their weekly crops—until it had become sacred “women” time. No men allowed.

It didn't bother Annie at all when he came along, but Sheila huffed and puffed and rolled her eyes behind their backs, which was interesting. Sheila and Vera had grown up together and had been friends their whole lives. Annie envied their relationship—most of the time.

“How's the new book coming along?” Beatrice asked.

“It's going well, except for the nightmares.”

“Nightmares?”

“It's hard to write about this kind of murder without having bad dreams. She was abused for years. That's hard. And then she took an ax to her abuser, who happened to be her dad. Really difficult to wade through in any meaningful way, trying to get beneath the surface of all of it,” Annie said, and then paused a beat. “You want to say ‘good for her' on the one hand, but on the other . . . well, wasn't there another way?”

Beatrice was silent. Unusual. Then, “I guess it is hard to relate. But sometimes you are so isolated—or feel that way—that you can't think of another thing to do.”

“I don't think she was thinking. I believe some strange thing happened in her brain. She just snapped,” Annie said. “And for me, losing control is the most frightening thing of all.”

After her conversation with Annie, Beatrice realized she was hungry. A snack before bedtime, that's just what she needed. She padded her way into her kitchen and fixed herself a plate of molasses cookies and a glass of milk. She took her snack with her to the computer, where Jon was sitting, the blue of the screen reflecting on his face. Something about his posture gave Beatrice a chill.

“What's wrong?” she said, setting her plate down on the desk.

“I've been reading about the woman who was killed on the
Jezebel
,” he said. “The story is out. She was involved in a messy divorce. Sounds awful. Children involved. Money.” He clicked his tongue.

“So her soon-to-be-ex-husband would be a suspect,” Beatrice said.

He nodded. “Oui.”

“Do they know how she was killed?”

“They say it was poison. They think ricin, from the look of the body. But the medical facilities are limited on the ship, so they can't be certain yet.”

“Ricin,” Beatrice said. “Where would she get a hold of that?”

He shrugged. “That would seem to be the million-dollar question. Evidently, when a murder happens on the high seas, it is very, very difficult to investigate.”

Beatrice bit into her spicy cookie. Damn, it was good. “Mmm-mmm. That's one of the reasons I hate cruises. All kinds of disappearances. Rapes, and stuff. And people get away with these crimes because the law is so tricky. But when something happens to an American citizen, usually the FBI gets involved.”

“As we know,” Jon said, and smiled. “But by the time they get to the scene, what will have happened to the evidence?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said, then smacked her lips together. “Though I guess the ship's security will step in and keep it safe, right?”

Jon let out a huge sigh. “I am sorry, Beatrice, but the more I look at ship security, I wonder why these cruises bother at all. The security people are not concerned with justice. They work for the cruise lines. When something happens, the first people they call are the lawyers—the ship's lawyers—to see, how you say, how liable the company is.”

Beatrice swallowed the last bit of her cookie. “Oh my, you have been researching.”

“It is troubling. So many people go missing from ships, too. Maybe they fall over? Maybe they are kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped?”

He nodded. “They disappear. At least one person disappears from a cruise every three weeks, worldwide.”

A shiver rippled through Beatrice's body. “Land sakes, I've always known about cruises and the risks, but I never knew the extent of it.”

Beatrice looked over Jon's shoulder as he read.

“‘Allison Elizabeth Monroe, age forty-three, died today on the
Jezebel,
while attending a scrapbooking cruise. Monroe, who was a headliner at the event, was perhaps one of the wealthiest scrapbook designers in the United States. The mother of three daughters, she started her business fifteen years ago in the basement of her home.'”

“That's odd,” Beatrice said. “What a coincidence. The same as Sheila. Only she has just been selling the supplies, not designing. Yet.”

“Didn't Sheila say this woman took an interest in her or something?” Jon said.

“Yes, they had been e-mailing back and forth and Sheila was hoping to work for her, I think,” Beatrice said. “Maybe she was a role model for Sheila. Poor Sheila. To trip over her body like that.”

“‘She built her scrapbooking design business into an empire of fifty lines of scrapbooking supplies and recently launched a digital line, with a Web site that has six million unique visitors every month,'” Jon read aloud.

“Good Lord, that's a lot of people,” Beatrice said. “No wonder she was rich.”

She scanned the article further. But there was no mention of her being murdered. Typical.

“It says that the cause of death is unknown,” Jon said, as if reading her mind.

“Hmph,” Beatrice said. “They have a couple of thousand people on a ship in the western Caribbean and there's a killer among them. I'm sure they don't want to set off a panic.”

“I hope Vera is careful,” Jon said after a few minutes. “All of them. I hope they mind their own business and do not try to get involved.”

“I would say they probably have had enough involvement, with Sheila tripping over the body,” Beatrice said. “They probably don't want to think about the murder too hard. I know I wouldn't.”

“But still, remember the last time they got involved with a murder?” Jon asked.

“How could I forget? Though every time they've been involved the murder affected them somehow. Last time, Vera was a suspect,” Beatrice said. “She was dragged in whether or not she wanted to be.”

Jon clicked on another site. “I love this,” he said. “We can track the
Jezebel
as it travels. It's a very classy program they've designed for family members and friends. There's a newsletter and photos of people. Really nice. I love this tracker.”

The screen went blue; the islands of the Caribbean appeared, then an icon for the ship, which was standing still.

“Hmm, last time I checked, the little boat was moving,” Jon said, and refreshed the page.

“Probably something wrong with the page,” Beatrice said, and took a drink of her milk.

He clicked on the boat and a notice appeared on the screen:

Beatrice nearly choked on her milk. “Hand me the phone, Jon.”

But try as she might, she was unable to reach her daughter.

The announcement came over the intercom about Allie Monroe's untimely death while the croppers were at an evening session on card making. There was no mention of murder.

“They said it was an accident,” Vera said. “Didn't they tell us she was poisoned?”

The woman who was behind Vera at the next table over twisted her head and looked at her. She was also getting the evil eye from Sheila.

Eric put his arm around Vera and whispered into her ear. She nodded.

Even though “murder” and “poison” weren't mentioned in the announcement, it still sent a hushed chill over the room as the crafters folded their card stock and sought out stamps and stickers, buttons, and other embellishments. Christmas music played softly in the background. Lights twinkled as the sun began to set.

“I'll be meeting Theresa soon and I really wish I had my scrapbook. I don't understand why they are insisting on keeping it,” Sheila said. “My scrapbook didn't kill her.”

“Do you have the photos?” Vera asked.

“I do,” Sheila said. “But it's not the same thing as having the scrapbook to show.”

She placed a paper daisy in the center of her card and held it up to eyeball it. “I really like making cards. I've often thought of starting my own line. I'm not good at the words part though.”

“You and Annie should go into business. She writes beautiful poetry sometimes,” Paige said.

“Really? I had no idea,” said Vera.

“Yep. She says she doesn't write it much anymore. But I saw one of her poems in a literary journal. How many Annie Chamovitzes can there be? So I asked her about it,” Paige said.

“How about that?” Sheila said.

The room was filled with low murmurs, laughter, and the sound of cutting boards and scissors.

“I've been thinking,” Paige said. “Why don't we see if Allie's room is open? We could go in there and get the scrapbook and nobody would know. She's got to have tons of scrapbooks in her room, right?”

“Now, that's an idea,” Sheila said, grinning. Why hadn't she thought of that?

“I don't think it's a good idea,” Eric said. “That's a crime scene. You shouldn't be there.”

“Eric's right,” Vera said. “Just stay here and have fun. Your scrapbook will be fine.”

“It couldn't hurt to look,” Randy said, after a few moments. “The door's probably locked anyway.”

“Let's go,” Paige said. “If the door is locked, there's nothing we can do, right?”

“But if it's unlocked, I'll slip in and get my scrapbook,” Sheila said.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Vera repeated.

“Nobody asked your permission,” Sheila said with a bit of a bite to her voice.

Vera flung her arms out. “Fine. I'll stay here and finish my card with Eric.”

“Whatever suits you,” Paige said. “We'll be right back.”

The three of them left their crafting behind and stole away into the hallways of the cruise ship.

“Do you know where the room is?” Randy asked.

“Yes, we were there this morning. No worries,” Paige said. “We know where we're going.”

The three of them walked through the gray, snaking corridors until they arrived at the right room. Sheila reached out for the doorknob.

“Wait!” Randy said. “Use this.” He handed her a handkerchief. “Better to be safe.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. Sheila was happy for it; he'd been so sad lately.

“Smart,” Sheila said, reaching for the linen cloth. “That's my boy,” she said. Then she froze and listened. “Hold on. I hear voices.”

Randy leaned nonchalantly against the wall and Paige pretended to be passing by. Sheila just stood there, eyes wide.

The group of people passed through the hallway.

“Maybe this isn't a good idea,” Sheila said. Her heart was racing and her palms were sweaty.
What if they got caught?

“Don't be ridiculous. We're here now,” Paige said. Her blue eyes were lit with excitement.

Sheila knew there was no turning back. She hoped the door was open and she hoped her scrapbook was easily found.

She wrapped the doorknob with the cloth and twisted. The door came open.

“Isn't that something?” Paige said. “Anybody could come in here and steal her things.” Indignant. As if that's not exactly what they were doing.

Sheila stepped into the pitch black room, surprised that Allie didn't have more luxurious quarters with windows. She took her handkerchief and used it to flip on the lights.

What she saw made her gasp. Paige and Randy clung to each side of her.

“This is freaky,” Randy said.

The room was completely empty. The bed was perfectly made. It smelled of disinfectant. It was one clean room. No suitcases, clothes, and certainly no scrapbooks.

“What are you doing here?” a male voice said from behind them.

It was Matthew Kirtley, with his dreadlocks and beautiful white teeth.

“I thought I might come in and find my scrapbook,” Sheila said, her voice quivering.

“Look, lady, I told you we'd get the scrapbook to you,” he said, his hands on his hips.

“I don't have very much confidence in that,” Sheila said. “Sorry. That book means a lot to me.”

“I can see that, but you can't go off to find it on your own. You'll need to trust me on this,” he said.

“Trust you?” Paige said. “This is Allie's room, right?” She gestured, as if to say, What the heck is going on here?

“Yes,” he said after a moment. He cleared his throat. “But by the time we got here the room had been cleaned out completely, unfortunately.”

“So when we were here earlier—”

“Yes, I'm sorry, but we really couldn't tell you there was nothing in the room,” he said.

“So when you tell me you'll get my scrapbook back to me—”

“It's missing,” he said. “But we're on a ship. It's here somewhere. And we will find it along with the rest of her things.”

Sheila noted his weariness. Dark circles under his eyes and a raspy voice led her to believe the man had not been sleeping.

“I'm so sorry,” Randy said. “We really shouldn't be here. Ms. Rogers has a meeting tonight and wanted her scrapbook for it.”

Matthew glanced at Randy and smiled a weary smile. “I understand. But now that you know, can we keep this to ourselves? And try to stay out of trouble?” He cocked an eyebrow at Randy.

Randy made a sound almost like a laugh. “Well, that's no fun, chief.”

There was brief eyeball exchange between the security chief and Randy. Sheila was not certain, but she thought Randy was flirting with the chief of security. A blush creeped onto Randy's face.

She shrugged. She wasn't certain about much these days, but she was beginning to come to terms with the fact that she'd probably never see that scrapbook again.

“Are you okay?” Paige's arm went around her.

“I think so,” Sheila said. “I think I'm giving up on that scrapbook. Maybe I'll make a new one based on what I remember.”

“It's a shame,” Paige said, looking at the chief, still eyeing her son.

“Let's go, Randy,” she said, reaching for his arm. “Let's finish our cards and get ready for dinner.”