A Crafty Christmas (7 page)

Annie dug underneath her cupboard and pulled out her box that held the menorah and other items she used for Hanukkah. She just wanted to have them on hand for tomorrow.

Mike passed by her and patted her on the rear end. “I'm heading for bed. Are you coming?”

“I'll be there soon,” she said. “I have one more load of laundry coming out of the dryer.”

“Okay,” he said, and headed for bed, knowing better than to suggest she leave it for tomorrow. She was particular about some of the laundry. The boys' shirts needed to be folded immediately after they came out of the dryer or their sons would walk around a wrinkled mess, giving people even more reason to talk about them—the only Jewish boys in town.

It was getting a bit easier for them, thank goodness. Ben was becoming more popular with the boys his age because he excelled at soccer. Annie was glad it was soccer and not football. Sam was starting to play a lot of soccer, too, but he didn't take to it as much as Ben.

The dryer's buzzer went off and Annie pulled out the clothes. Hot. Fresh smelling. She scooped them into a basket and decided to take them into the living room and catch some news while she folded the clothes. A wave of weariness overtook her.
Bed soon,
she told herself.
And in the morning, one more chapter on the book.

She sat the basket down on the coffee table and clicked on the remote. The TV was turned to the Disney Channel. She flipped around the stations until she reached CNN. Then she pulled some T-shirts out of the basket and listened to the news as she folded. The stock market seemed to be rallying. That was good news. Gas prices still skyrocketing. Grrr. That she knew. She folded clothes and the world turned.

She was trying to ignore this creeping sensation in her belly. She was worried about Hannah going to New York. But she was even more worried about her friends on the cruise ship. She hadn't been worried before they left—but since there had been a murder on the ship, Annie's hackles were raised. And then the really odd thing with the FBI agents visiting Beatrice and trying to tell her Sheila was dead . . . Talk about screwed up.

Maybe it
was
just an honest mistake.

If there was anything she'd learned by dealing with law enforcement that people would find surprising, it was how many mistakes they actually made every day. Of course most of them were good, adequate folks, but mistakes happened, just as they did in every profession.

But maybe it wasn't an honest mistake. That thought ticked at Annie as she folded yet another T-shirt. Maybe it was something else. But what?

She caught herself. Rolled her eyes at herself.
Get it together, Annie, you are getting paranoid.
Still it couldn't hurt to use her press credentials to get a copy of the report.

She picked up the remote and flipped the television to the Weather Channel. It had become a habit. She loved to watch weather patterns. God, she was becoming her parents, who could talk for hours about the weather.

She folded a pair of jeans and then another. The talking head on the Weather Channel said that Virginia was in for some snow. The boys would be thrilled.

“In other news, we are watching a tropical storm in the western Caribbean as it makes its way to the east coast of Mexico,” said the talking head.

“Mexico?” Annie said out loud. “Isn't that where the
Jezebel
's heading?”

Suddenly, instead of the news being a backdrop in her domestic scene, her attention honed in on the TV. Her friends were headed for a storm. A freaky, huge storm. Surely the ship's crew watched the weather, right? The same crew who had misinformed the FBI about who had died on the ship. Annie's stomach flipped a bit.

The weatherman droned on: “This storm appeared out of nowhere and we are really not certain if it will hit the coast or if it will turn toward the islands. If it hits the Mexican coast at full force, it will be devastating. If it runs in the other direction, the storm may lose momentum as it heads toward the islands. We are keeping a close eye on this system. Several ships in the area have turned around or have adjusted their routes. At this time, we have no further information on individual ships.”

Annie folded the last pair of jeans as her heart began to race. She wished she had more confidence in this ship's crew. Of course they knew what they were doing when it came to weather and the sea and so on. Of course they did—or else they wouldn't be sailors.

When a murder happened, fear took over and mistakes sometimes would be made, especially by people who'd never dealt with that type of death before. She could see the errors in dealing with the murder case.

She placed the folded clothes back in the basket. Her hands felt warm from the clothes, but they were a bit sweaty, too. She didn't want to think about Sheila, Paige, Vera, Randy, and Eric on the high seas during this storm. She couldn't think too hard about it. It would make her panic.

Instead, she decided to call Vera. She knew it would be expensive, but she needed to hear her friend's voice.

Of course, she couldn't get through.

Annie called Sheila next. Then Paige.

All of the cell phones gave no message, no signal, nothing.

Annie headed for her computer.

Mike was already asleep. He was snoring softly in the background when she turned her computer on. He wouldn't wake up. He was used to the soft blue light of the screen and the clicking of her keyboard.

She clicked on the Skype icon and the wheel kept spinning. Nobody was available on Skype either.

She searched online to see if there was any news. Nothing recent. Just the news of Allie Monroe's death.

Annie drew in a breath. What was going on?

By the time Beatrice finished reading
How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
for the fifteenth time, Elizabeth was out. Before she crept out of the child's room, Beatrice turned to look at her lying peacefully in the bed with the quilt pulled up around her and her stuffed elephant in one hand snuggled up to her chin. The child loved elephants. At three years old, she could tell you all about them, their habitats, what they liked to eat, and so on. She showed no inclination toward dance, which her mother loved so much. Beatrice smiled—the child resembled Vera, but she thought she might be more like her with her love of science. She shrugged. It didn't really matter. But it always fascinated Beatrice to see the stew of genetics and what eventually ended up foaming at the top.

Beatrice left the room as quietly and gracefully as her old body could muster. That was a challenge.

Lawd, if anything happened to Vera, what would she and Elizabeth do? She clutched her chest as she made her way into her room, where Jon was tucked into bed with a book, but was almost asleep. The book was tilted down, slipping from his hands. His glasses perched on the end of his nose and his eyelids hung low with weariness. He grunted at her.

She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her book. She swung her legs over. They were strong, mountain-walking legs. She slipped them under the covers.

“Why don't you turn your light off and go to sleep?” she said.

“Waiting on you,” he mumbled. “Worried.”

“Me too,” she said. Her book was heavy in her hands. She turned the page to read about Agatha Raisin in the Cotswolds of England. Far away.

“I'm worried that you're becoming an Anglophile,” Jon said, swatting at her book.

She playfully bopped him on the head with it. “Oh you! You know I'll always be a Francophile.”

He grinned.

“Now to sleep with you,” she said.

“You too?”

“You know I have to read a few minutes, but I'm sleepy, so it won't be long.”

He kissed her, then rolled over to his other side.

Beatrice turned her attention to her book. Soon, Jon was snoring softly and she realized that even though she was turning the pages and her eyes were skimming the words, she wasn't reading at all. She closed her book and set it down on her bedside table, where her battered copy of
Leaves of Grass
had sat untouched for a few weeks. She noted that the lace tablecloth underneath it showed the dirt and dust in this light. She made a mental note to take all the tablecloths off in the morning and wash them.

She was trying very hard not to think about her only daughter on a cruise ship in the western Caribbean where a storm was headed. From the very start of that child's life, she had tested Beatrice. She wasn't interested in the same things as Bea: math and physics. Her daughter wanted to dance. Vera had been through so much the last few years of her life—a new baby, a divorce, a failed love affair, and a new one that appeared to be going well. Then there was the sleepwalking and the time she was a suspect for murder.

Even though Vera had not followed her mother's path, Bea admired her daughter for going her own way and forging ahead with her dance studio and her life. That much Vera had gotten from her, she supposed.

When Beatrice closed her eyes, she saw a ship rocking back and forth and waves slapping onto the deck.

Surely not. Those ships were huge. Surely they would be untouched by rough waves of any sort.

But the scientist in Beatrice knew that the power of the ocean could certainly take down even one of the biggest ocean liners, let alone the
Jezebel. . . .
She turned over to her side.

Of course, the captain and his crew would be well trained and prepared for such things. The fact that they messed up the notification of the murder victim should not have any bearing. That was an unusual circumstance. They were probably flustered and had never dealt with such a thing before. Who gets murdered on a luxury cruise ship, right?

Beatrice turned over to her other side.

Damn, the whole thing rubbed her the wrong way. No use pretending that it didn't. Sometimes you could fool yourself into a calmness. But not this time. Not tonight. She flung the covers off and reached for her robe and slipped it onto her body, bones creaking.

She tiptoed out of the room, leaving Jon to sleep. Someone would need to be rested tomorrow to think clearly and calmly. It wasn't going to be Beatrice.

She headed down the stairs and toward the kitchen, remembering the coconut pie in the fridge. There was at least half of it left. Maybe that would help her sleep. That and a big glass of warm milk—with a shot or two of bourbon in it. “Good for what ails ya” is what her daddy always said.

Dinner was a lavish affair. Each night the ship seemed to outdo itself from the previous night. Buffet tables piled high with fresh seafood, gorgeous vegetables and fruit welcomed them each night. Even though Sheila's grand prize allowed her to eat for free at any of the onboard restaurants, she chose to dine with her friends at the buffet. They all came to love the lavish dessert tables. A chocolate fountain surrounding delectables like pound cake, fruit, and pretzels consumed their attention this night. Even Randy was impressed.

“I've often thought about working on a cruise ship,” he said. “I'd get to see the world.”

“It would be fun,” Sheila agreed. “You're young and now would be the time to do it.”

“I'd never see him then,” Paige said.

“You hardly see each other now,” Vera said. “How's it going with Earl?”

“We spoke on the phone yesterday,” Randy announced. “He said he was sorry to hear that Fred and I broke up.” His voice cracked and he gazed off.

Sheila wondered if he was emotional because of chatting with his father or because of the break-up with his partner.

“Wonders never cease,” Vera said. “Your dad is talking with you. That's great.”

A huge smile appeared on Paige's face. “Earl is just working through it. He loves Randy. It's going to be okay.”

Randy, fair and blond, blushed easily and his face reddened as he sipped his wine. “Maybe it's time for change in my life,” he said. “Maybe I'll check into pastry gigs on the ships.”

“You know, I don't think I've ever had such good lobster,” Vera said. “The food is amazing. I swear I'm going home at least ten pounds heavier. And everything is so clean. Hard to imagine someone has been poisoned.”

“But they didn't say food poisoning, did they? I don't think so. It's not just the food, but the booze. I mean everywhere you go, they are shoving drinks under your nose,” Sheila said.

“Yeah, for a hefty price,” Paige said. “Unless it's in crop rooms. I've been able to sneak some into my flask so I have my own portable bar. Screw them and their twenty dollars for a glass of wine.”

“My mom,” Randy said, laughing. “Class act.”

“How's your head?” Eric asked Sheila.

“It hurts. After dinner, I'm going to meet with Theresa, then go back to my cabin and go to sleep. You all will have to party without me.” She grinned.

“Truth is I'm about partied out. This cruise has been exhausting. Maybe tomorrow I'll relax by the pool. I love to scrapbook, but this has been intense,” Paige said.

“I'm a bit weary, too,” Vera said after a few minutes.

“And with the murder and everything . . . I don't know. I'm a bit freaked out. I can't stop thinking about the poison. Is it in the food? In the water? Where is it? Maybe I'll join you at the pool tomorrow, too. Until Sheila's journaling class. We won't miss that.”

“Tomorrow night is the award ceremony?” Eric asked.

“No,” Sheila said. “It's the next night. It was supposed to be after my class in Mexico, but it doesn't look like we're going to get there. I ran into the captain and he gave me a heads-up on that.”

“Doesn't look like we're going anywhere,” Eric said.

“They're just being safe,” Vera said. “I don't mind if they turn around and go to some other ports. Just as long as we get there safely.”

“Seems like a long time,” Paige said.

“Well, they said to reroute requires permission from several agencies and islands,” Randy said. “It must be taking longer than what they expected.”

Sheila finished the last bite of her meal and excused herself to go meet with Theresa again in the Cut and Paste lounge. That name tickled Sheila, even though she knew that the
Jezebel
had adopted it temporarily for the scrapbooking cruise.

She looked around the dark lounge, her eyes adjusting from the brightly lit hallway. She didn't see Theresa. She walked around a bit and then she saw her. She was sitting with a man—maybe it was her husband?

Sheila walked toward them and Theresa stood up to greet her. “Sheila, so glad you could make it. This is Harold Tuft,” she said.

Sheila extended her hand. He offered his in a cold and clammy weak handshake. How weird.

“Nice to meet you,” he said meekly. His eyes and nose were red and swollen. Was he sick? Drunk?

“I'm sorry, Sheila. Please have a seat. We were just talking about Allie. Her death . . . it's such a tragedy. She was so young and vibrant,” said Theresa.

“Yes,” Sheila said. “I had just been with her the night before she died.”

“Really?” Theresa said. “Why?”

“She loved my work and wanted to borrow my scrapbook to look at it. I've not seen it since—”

“Oh, that's why you don't have it,” she said.

Harold patted his eyes with a handkerchief. “I'm sorry, ladies. I really must go back to our—my—cabin. I'm feeling quite under the weather.”

He took his leave and Theresa's eyes followed him.

“Poor man,” she said. “He and Allie were close. I don't know what the man is going to do.”

“You mean—?”

“Yes, they were planning to be married, as soon as her divorce was final.”

“Oh,” Sheila said. Why weren't they sharing a room together? Maybe they were. Maybe she never really stayed in her own cabin. Oh hell, she'd have to find the security guard and tell him what she knew. It could help with the case—and help find her scrapbook. Her head was pounding. She reached into her bag for an ibuprofen and slipped it into her mouth. How many had she taken today?

“So let's look at your photos. I hope it will jog my memory,” Theresa said with a flat note in her voice.

Sheila pulled out her envelope from her bag and showed her photos to Theresa. She wished the woman would say something other than “lovely, just lovely.”

Finally she did.

“I remember this book quite vividly,” she said, looking at Sheila over her glasses. Those droopy bloodhound eyes were shot. “I think it's average, I'm sorry to say. I was surprise that Allie liked it so much and put her weight behind it. And I was surprised that this book was designed by the same person who designed the exquisite digital pieces. That's where your strength as a designer lies. We would never hire you to design scrapbooks, I'm sorry to say.”

Sheila couldn't believe what she was hearing. She choked back a tear. She thought her scrapbook was unique—everybody else had told her that. But maybe they were just being polite. But wait. She'd won a major competition. You didn't win a competition like this unless you were good. This was confusing.

“I don't understand,” Sheila said. “I won the contest.” Her voice came out weak.

“As I said, Allie really liked it and persuaded some of the other judges. But our company's designers have a much higher standard than hers,” Theresa said with a tight smile.

Sheila fought back anger as she realized this was not about her. Theresa and Allie were competitors. And while Allie's body was still in the ship's morgue, Theresa could not muster a kind word for her or for Sheila.

“If that's all,” Sheila said, gathering up her photos. “I've got a raging headache.” Her voice was steady. She'd be damned if she'd let this woman know how she'd upset her. “I really need to lie down.” She grabbed her things and left.

“Hope you feel better soon,” Theresa said with a fake lightness.

When Sheila turned around to look at her once more, she was grinning off into another direction at nobody in particular. It looked evil and malicious. Maybe murderous.

She walked over to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited. Oh Lord, she wanted her bed. Tomorrow she'd meet with David's Designs, teach her class, and then lounge by the pool with her friends. Yes, that's what she'd do. That thought warmed her.

She slipped into the elevator and smiled at the woman already there. Sheila's room was on the top floor. She felt a bit pampered in her luxurious quarters; her friends' rooms were on another deck completely and did not have windows. Sheila was treated like a star by everybody. Everybody except Theresa, that is.

When she exited the elevators, she noted sounds of scuffling or something, which was odd because the halls were usually quiet and kept clear. She turned the corner and saw Harold splayed on the floor, with three women crowded around him.

“He's dead,” one woman cried.

“What do we do?” another woman said through her sobs.

Sheila spotted an emergency phone and ran toward it. “I'll call security.”

This cruise was becoming a nightmare. Only this morning she'd tripped over Allie's body. Tonight she watched as the security team and medics took Harold's body and comforted the three women who'd found him.

“He was heading to his room,” one said, and gestured to the room next to Sheila. “He said he wasn't feeling good.”

“He looked very sick,” another one said.

“Ms. Rogers . . .” Matthew Kirtley came up beside her. “Fancy seeing you again.”