Scrapbook of the Dead (2 page)

Beatrice and Jon were having breakfast at Elsie's B and B. Elsie had invited them several times and they had finally run out of excuses. Jon didn't mind Elsie, but Beatrice would rather not spend any more time with her than necessary. In fact, there weren't many people with whom Beatrice liked to spend time.

“This is delicious,” Jon said.

The stuffed French toast was a bit rich for Bea's taste, but she had to agree that it was delicious—perfectly spiced with cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg.

“What kind of cheese is inside?” His slight French accent was even slighter since he had moved to the States to be with Beatrice.

“Ricotta.” Elsie beamed. “I'm so glad you like it, Jon.” The woman sparkled every time Beatrice's new husband was around her.

Bea was not a jealous woman, but it was beginning to annoy her. She harrumphed and Jon's eyes met hers. He knew what she was thinking. He grinned and sipped his coffee.

Beatrice turned toward the commotion she heard at the front door. In walked Randy, Paige, and Earl.

“Do you have any bourbon?” Paige asked, frantic.

“What? Why? Of course, I do,” Elsie said.

Beatrice's estimation of her went up. Just a tad. “What on earth is wrong? Whiskey so early in the morning?”

Paige led Randy to an overstuffed chair.

“Randy discovered a dead body this morning at the Pie Palace,” Earl said after a moment. “Just a little drink will calm his nerves. It's always worked before.”

“A dead body?” Jon exclaimed.

Beatrice's heart jumped and Elsie gasped.

Randy nodded. “In the freezer. I went in early to help move the sugar. It had been sitting there . . . I don't know . . . a few days. I opened the door, turned the light on, and saw this heap. Turned out it was Marina.”

Elsie handed him a glass filled with a few shots of whiskey poured over ice. Randy took a sip and closed his eyes.

“Good Lord,” Beatrice said. “How did that happen?”

Randy shrugged and stared off into space.

“They don't know if was an accident, suicide, or foul play,” Paige said.

“Foul play?” Elsie said, her eyes widening and face whitening.

Beatrice knew Elsie was thinking of the incident that had occurred right in her beloved B and B. She and Jon had been shot in the very room and were lucky to have survived. Maybe that's why Beatrice put up with her busybody ways and her flirting with Jon.

Paige shrugged. “Nobody knows anything at this point.” She sighed. “Of course.”

“I've got to get to work,” Earl said. “Take it easy, Randy.”

“I'll try,” Randy said, looking up at his father. “Thanks for everything, Dad.”

“Sure, thing. You're going to be fine,” Earl said, as if trying to convince himself as much as Randy. Earl shuffled his feet awkwardly and walked out to his car.

Beatrice was glad to see Earl and Randy once again in the same room and speaking with one another after their years of estrangement. But Randy did not look well at all. He had never struck Beatrice as a fragile sort, but then again, walking in on a dead body was no way to start the day.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Elsie asked Randy.

He waved his hand and shook his head. “No, thanks. I'm fine with the whiskey. Almost lost the breakfast I already had. Don't want to rock the boat.”

The place went silent as Beatrice and Jon sipped their coffee and finished their French toast.

“Who is Marina?” Beatrice finally asked. “Is she from Cumberland Creek?”

Randy swallowed his next sip of whiskey and shook his head. “No. She's from Mexico.”

“Good heavens,” Elsie said. “She was so far from home. What was she doing here?”

“Working and sending money home, from what I understand,” Randy said, his eyes watering. “She was just so sweet.” He took another drink as his color gradually returned. “She made the most magnificent mango pie,” he muttered.

The front door of the house opened and Bea turned to see the new arrival. It was Annie, thank goodness. Maybe she could shed some light on the situation.

“Hey Bea, Jon, Elsie. Where can I find—”

Beatrice nodded in Randy's direction before Annie could finish her question.

“Annie!” Randy sat up straighter in his chair. “What did you find out? Anything?”

“Unfortunately, no. I talked to the sheriff, talked with the ME. It's all speculation at this point. But how are you?”

Randy shrugged. “I've never seen anything like that.... You must think I'm such a coward.”

“Not at all,” Annie said, pulling a dining room chair over to him. “I've seen a lot of murder victims and while you sort of get used to it, it never gets any easier. It bothers me every single time.”

“Of course it does,” Beatrice said. “You're human. It would bother anybody.”

“Now I understand a bit about how Sheila felt on the cruise,” he mumbled. “Tripping over a dead body. Thank God I didn't trip over Marina.”

“How long had that sugar been sitting in front of the freezer?” Annie asked.

“I don't know. I think a couple days. Too long,” he said. “We've been having staffing problems and the person who usually takes care of stock was out sick. I finally got tired of it sitting there and I needed to get into the damn freezer. I've really never seen such lackadaisical handling of stock. It would never go over in New York.”

Annie nodded.

“I'm not surprised to hear it,” Beatrice said.

Transitioning from New York City to Cumberland Creek was no easy task—even for a young man who grew up and had family there. Being openly gay was just an additional part of Randy's challenge as he tried to settle back down in his hometown.

“All the time I spent in the big city . . . well, let's just say I never once ran into a dead body,” Randy said.

Beatrice grimaced. She knew Paige and Earl were ecstatic to have their only child back in the area—but she wondered how long Randy was going to be happy in Cumberland Creek.

“Murder? Not again!” DeeAnn exclaimed. “Good God, what is happening to this community?”

True, the Pie Palace was not in Cumberland Creek, quite, but still, it was close enough.

It was Saturday night so the croppers were all gathered in Sheila's basement scrapping room for their weekly crop. It was DeeAnn's favorite day of the week. After a hard day of work, a nice and relaxing dinner with her husband, spending the night with her girlfriends was exactly what she needed.

Annie placed her beer bottle down on the table. “According to the ME, Marina was dead before she was placed in the freezer. She bled to death before she was dragged inside the freezer. Yet there was no blood in the freezer.”

Annie opened a pie box, reached in, and grabbed the pie.

DeeAnn moved the box away. “Why would a killer place a dead body in a freezer? I mean, it's so blatant. Don't you think you'd want to hide the body?” She paused. “I've always admired that freezer. I'd love to have one as big as that.” DeeAnn owned a thriving bakery in town.

Annie grunted. “Well, the killer certainly wasn't concerned with hiding the body, were they? That says something, but I'm not sure what.” She held the pie up and took it in. It smelled like a cakey, chocolate-covered cherry—Annie's idea of culinary heaven. “Pretty,” she said as she admired the craftsmanship.

It was Pamela's Cherry Chocolate Delight, a cherry pie with chocolate drizzled over the lattice crust and a fine layer of chocolate on the bottom crust.

Sheila, hunched over her laptop, looked up. “If there's one thing I've learned over the past few years, it's that criminals are not the brightest.”

“What are you doing?” Vera asked, setting down her scrapbook and reaching for a paper plate as Annie sliced the pie and began doling it out.

“I'm working on a Halloween-themed scrap journal,” Sheila responded. “It's for work. I've got a deadline next week.”

DeeAnn surveyed her friends around the table. Sheila was a designer with a huge craft company in New York City. She journeyed between the city and Cumberland Creek so often it was becoming commonplace, but DeeAnn knew her well enough to see it was wearing on her. She always looked tired. And she wasn't her cheerful self anymore. Annie had said Sheila was still getting over the incident that had happened on the cruise ship last Christmas. One thing was for sure, Sheila was changing.

“Did you try those pumpkin-ginger cookies?” DeeAnn asked her. “I think you'd like them.” In her experience, cookies made everything better—at least for the time being. For that matter, so did pie.

Sheila reached for a cookie over her computer. “I'll take a slice of pie, too. I don't really care for cherry, but the chocolate adds something to it.”

“Those cookies are good,” Vera said, holding up a page. She was working on a scrapbook about Eric, the man with whom she lived. She had gathered all of his old photos and sorted through them, then decided it was time to make a scrapbook for him. “Eric's mom wasn't into scrapbooking,” she explained, noting DeeAnn looking at her page.

“What a cute photo,” DeeAnn said. “Eric was adorable.” It was a photo of him dressed as a cowboy for Halloween, placed on a cowboy-themed page, complete with a horse and a rope that outlined the page.

Vera beamed. It was so clear how much she loved the man, yet she would not marry him.

Maybe it was smart,
mused DeeAnn,
given how her last marriage had turned out.
The scrapbook of that wedding had been destroyed—Vera had torn up the pages and thrown them in the Cumberland Creek. DeeAnn smiled to herself, even as a wave of weariness overtook her. She sighed.

“Busy day?” Vera asked.

“Since the Pie Palace was closed, everybody and their brother came to my place,” DeeAnn said. “We were packed all day.”

“I saw that,” Sheila said. “I was out running errands and saw the line. I wonder if you might consider expanding soon.”

Paige had mentioned the same thing to her last week. DeeAnn glanced over at Paige and Randy's empty chairs. After the day's events, they had decided a quiet night at home was in order. It certainly was emptier in Sheila's basement scrapbooking room without them. Paige was DeeAnn's dearest friend and she loved Randy as if he were her own.

“I'm considering some changes,” DeeAnn said. What she didn't tell them was one of those changes she was considering was retirement. She'd gotten into the business because she loved to bake, but it was an extremely physical job. She was more tired than she should be and her bones ached. Her back was a constant problem. Even with all her good help, it was a bit too much.

“Change is a good thing. Take it from me,” Vera said, grinning.

“Things are working out well with Eric, then,” Annie said, as she placed a rub-on embellishment on her page and started to rub it with a craft stick. She pulled the plastic backing off gently, leaving a pumpkin on the page.

Vera nodded and smiled.

“You know, I love these rub-ons. So much fun and they look so delicate on the paper.” Annie was working on a Halloween card. She'd taken an online class on how to make cards and was zooming along with it.

“Are those David's Designs?” Sheila asked, cutting a piece of her slice of pie with her fork. “We have a gorgeous line of them.”

“Hmm. I don't think so.” Annie turned the paper over. “No, not David's.”

“I'll see if I can pick up some next time I'm in the city,” Sheila said, bringing a bit of pie to her mouth.

“Oh, that would be great,” Annie replied. “Voilà, this is done. I now have a lovely homemade card for my brother.” She held it up—a soft-tan card with pumpkin rub-ons. The center to the card had a torn darker brown strip. The words “Happy Halloween” were stamped on the bottom of the folded cardstock.

“Does he like Halloween?” Sheila said.

Annie nodded. “I'd say. If he could get away with it, he'd still go trick or treating.”

“So, are you going to cover the weirdness at the Pie Palace?” DeeAnn asked Annie.

She nodded. “I filed my first story in the series. I'm hoping this will also be my last story. I'll see this one through, but I'm earning enough from my books now so I don't have to freelance. We're waiting for my next royalty check to be sure.” She sat back in her chair. “You know, it feels good to finally be done with reporting. It's been a long, painful good-bye, but I'm really done. Or I will be, after this.”

DeeAnn wasn't so certain. Annie seemed so driven. Could she really give up journalism and be happy?

“What will you do with yourself, Annie?” Vera asked.

Annie laughed. “You might be surprised. That's all I'm saying.”

“You are an evil woman,” DeeAnn said. “Teasing us like that.”

Annie just smiled and fingered through her stack of cardstock. “You know, I almost forgot about the scrapbook page.”

“What?” DeeAnn said.

“Marina was holding a scrapbook page when they found her,” Annie said.

The room silenced.

“Disturbing,” DeeAnn finally said.

The Cumberland Creek scrapbooking club quieted as the soft jazz music played and the sound of Sheila's clicks on the computer dotted the soundscape, along with appreciative murmurs about the pie.

“Why would a young woman from Mexico have a scrapbooking page in her clutches when she was killed?” DeeAnn finally said after taking her last sip of wine. “I mean, that's bizarre!”

“Not only is it bizarre, it could also be a clue,” volunteered Annie.

“What do you mean?” Vera said, her blue eyes wide with speculation. “How could it be a clue?”

“Maybe it didn't belong to her. Maybe it belonged to the killer,” Annie said. “Or maybe she was just scrapbooking when she was attacked. I don't know, but it could definitely be a clue.”

“Or maybe the page had poison on it,” Sheila said. “Maybe that's what killed her—poison.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?” Vera laughed. “You just better get it off your mind. The next thing you know, we'll have Bryant and FBI agents and everybody and their brother hanging out here.”

“Maybe it will tell them more about her. Maybe she wasn't who people thought she was,” DeeAnn chimed in. “Like with Maggie Rae. Remember? We found out a lot about her by scrapbooking about her. We also found out a lot about Cookie by looking at her Scrapbook of Shadows. Any word from her?”

Annie glanced at Cookie's empty chair. Their old friend, Cookie, had been back in Cumberland Creek for a few months and sometimes joined the group, but since she was struck by lightning she had not been the same. She was under a doctor's care for her memory loss. Annie nodded, twisting her mouth. She was annoyed by the situation—but she was certain she wasn't as frustrated as Cookie herself, who described the way she felt as “lost.”

Annie had given up trying to make sense of Cookie's “escape” from jail. She had been arrested under the suspicion of murder and one day just disappeared from her jail cell. Her claim was she hadn't left on her own accord and had been struck by lightning sometime while she was away, leaving her dealing with profound memory loss. She was back, living off a steadily dwindling savings account in her little house at the end of a cul-de-sac.

“But this is just one scrapbook page,” Annie pointed out, keeping them on track. “And I have yet to see it. It could be any one of those things.”
But it could also be nothing at all—which was probably the case.

Sheila closed her laptop, stood, and stretched. “There's been some very strange things going on in this town. I'm just hoping it will calm down soon. I've got enough going on in my life without murder of a mysterious foreign woman on my horizon. I'm hoping the scrapbook page wasn't a clue. I don't want to have any more murder in my life.”

It was true; Sheila did have a lot on her plate. Her daughter Donna had been diagnosed recently with epilepsy and had decided to take time off from her design studies at Carnegie Mellon University. Sheila was tending her, plus running her household, scrapbooking business, and working for David's Designs.

Annie knew how she felt. She wanted to be done with murder, as well. Just one more story. She meant it. She'd been itching to try other kinds of writing, rather than her journalism, like fiction, or maybe get back to writing poetry.

“Have you tried this chocolate?” Vera said to Annie, scooting a plate full of homemade chocolate toward her.

Annie bit into a truffle and her taste buds sat up at attention. The flavor was deep and rich, with a smoky hint of tea. “Oh my God. That is orgasmic!”

“What? Oh Annie, the things you say!” Sheila said over the laughter.

“Well, hell, if it's orgasmic, I need a couple of 'em,” a red-faced DeeAnn said as she reached for some.

They all indulged and swooned over the chocolate. Vera's new hobby was making chocolate—much to the group's good fortune. Randy was helping her; he was a highly trained pastry chef, with a specialty in chocolate.

The thought brought Annie square back to him, wondering how he was doing after happening upon the dead body of his colleague.

“You know, Vera,” DeeAnn said, “why don't you try to sell some of your chocolate at my shop?”

Vera waved her off. “I don't think I'm ready to go pro. It's just for fun.”

“Are you sure? You could make a little extra money,” DeeAnn said.

“Hmm, well, I'll think about it. I certainly could use the money.” Vera's dance studio had bounced back a bit from the bad economy, but it had never completely recovered.

“You won't need to worry about money if you marry Eric. I mean, he is a doctor, ” Sheila said.

“Oh for God's sake!” Vera snapped. “I'm not marrying Eric for his money. In fact, I'm not marrying him at all. If you're so hell-bent on marriage and Eric, just marry him your damn self!”

They all looked up from their chocolate, pie, and scrapbooks. Sheila looked as if she had been smacked.

“That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?” DeeAnn finally said.

“Honestly, I don't know,” Vera said. “She's been on my case about this since he asked me to marry him. I said no. And I meant it.”

“On your case? I just want you to be happy.” Sheila flung her arms out.

“We all want you to be happy,” Annie said.

“Hell, we all want all of us to be happy,” DeeAnn said and lifted her glass. “To happiness.”

“Happiness, indeed!” Vera said and lifted her glass in return.