A Crafty Christmas

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “It’s good marketing,” Sheila said. “We’re her market. If we like it, we’ll buy more. Besides, she’s not hurting for money.”

  She loved the black and white paper with the silver cherry blossoms. She changed her cropping plans and decided to use the photo of her son and his violin on this paper. But first she needed to get a message to Allie. She wanted that scrapbook back.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m going to the message center to try to contact Allie.”

  “Maybe you’ll find her along the way. This place is packed,” Vera said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Paige said. “I need to stretch my legs before I settle in here for the afternoon.”

  The message board set up by the conference organizers was jammed with messages. It was a confusing mess.

  “Shoot,” Sheila said. “You know what? I’ll just go up to her room and slide this under the door. I think she said her room number was one hundred thirteen. Yes, that’s right. I remember it because of the thirteen and bad luck and all that. We joked about it.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Paige said. “How are you feeling? You still look a little dazed. Well, a little more dazed than usual.”

  Sheila chuckled. “I’m fine. That wine took the edge off a bit. Now, let’s see here.” They walked over to the elevator, went inside, and pushed the button to the first level of suites.

  They exited the elevator and walked along the deck. The sky was a beautiful robin’s egg blue, with no clouds in sight. The water and the sky sometimes looked like they were one. This was a different ocean than either one of these born and bred Virginians had ever seen. Theirs had a hard sand and rocky beach and was barely blue. This water was smooth as glass or silk. It was hard to take their eyes from it at times.

  They walked around the corner, looking at the numbers on the doors.

  “There it is,” Paige said.

  But something was very wrong. Part of the hallway was blocked off with people and there was a flurry of activity both inside and right outside Allie’s room.

  Matthew Kirtley walked out of the room. “Mrs. Rogers, can I help you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sheila said. “I came to see Allie. But is she here? Is she okay?” Her stomach flip-flopped as she realized something must be wrong if the security team was here.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rogers. She’s not here. Can I help you?”

  That was the second time he’d asked her the same question, yet he was being no help at all.

  “I stood her up this morning. We were supposed to have breakfast. She borrowed my scrapbook. I came to get it back from her. May I?” She motioned to the door.

  “I’m sorry, no,” he said. “Look, you’re going to find this out at dinner tonight. That’s when the announcement will be made.”

  “Announcement?” Sheila said.

  “Everything in Allie’s room is evidence right now. I’m surprised to hear that you knew her.... You didn’t recognize her this morning?”

  “What? This morning?” Sheila’s hand went to her cheek. Oh, this is very confusing. What is he getting at?

  “She was the victim on deck this morning,” he said.

  Sheila blinked and thought she might pass out again. She took several deep breaths as Paige’s arms slipped around her.

  She shook her head no. “It didn’t look anything like her. I mean, I didn’t get that close of a look. . . .”

  “No,” he said, his voice lowered. “Her face was contorted. She must have been in great pain. The poison . . .”

  “Poison?” Paige said.

  “Yes, normally we have to send out to labs to confirm. But this time it was pretty clear. Cause of death: poison. Details to come. Excuse me, ladies.”

  “But wait—my scrapbook . . .”

  But Matthew kept moving, and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Annie’s new dishwasher barely made a sound. Was it possible to love an appliance?

  She straightened the kitchen table, where the boys had just been doing their homework. A pile for Ben. A pile for Sam. It was a half day of school today, which meant they’d gotten home around eleven o’clock. Mike was overseeing the baths—the boys had decided on early baths, since they didn’t get them last night.

  She sat down at the table and started to sift through the stack of mail. The mail carrier didn’t seem to have a set schedule, which drove Annie crazy. In Washington, she could set her watch by the efficiency and timeliness of the mail carriers. Nothing exciting here: bills, junk mail, and—Oh, wait. A pretty blue envelope addressed to her.

  She opened it and saw it was a lovely handmade Hanukkah card. Who could this be from? Her family had never even sent cards. Most of them didn’t practice at all anymore, let alone celebrate Hanukkah. But she did; now that she was a mother living in the Bible Belt she wanted her boys to know about their family traditions.

  She opened the card and was surprised to see it was from Hannah, a young woman she’d met during the New Mountain Order murder cases from a few years ago.

  “Honey, do we have any clean washcloths?” Mike yelled in from the bathroom.

  “In the closet, Mike,” she yelled back.

  “I don’t think so, honey,” he said, in a sing-song tone. He was trying not to lose patience with her. She was probably the world’s worst housekeeper.

  She set the card on the table and went in to help Mike. Okay, so the washcloths weren’t where she said. But they were folded in a nice stack on the dryer.

  “There ya go,” she said, handing the cloth to him. “Sorry. I guess I forgot to put them away.” But at the same time, he could have put them away himself. She stacked them neatly inside the bathroom closet before going back to the kitchen table and card.

  Dear Annie, I want to wish you and your family a Happy Hanukkah. I miss seeing you at the farmers’ market and hope to see you in the spring again. I will be working all week at the bakery. Maybe you can stop by and see me? Love, Hannah.

  That might be a good idea. Maybe she could pick up some baked goods for Hanukkah tomorrow.

  Her mind sorted through memories of Hannah, how she’d befriended her during the investigation and had kept in touch. Hannah and her family were Old Order Mennonites, which meant they dressed in plain clothes, didn’t have cars, and didn’t use modern conveniences, like electricity. Hannah had been a good friend of the two women who had been murdered two years ago, one of whom was also a Mennonite.

  A naked boy zoomed past her through the kitchen, giggling, as Mike followed with a towel.

  “Ben, please,” Mike said.

  “Why can’t we just all be naked?” Ben wondered, his curly hair wet and dripping.

  “Silly boy,” Mike said, and grabbed him, toweled him off, then set him free. “Now go and get your pajamas on.”

  Mike sat down on the chair next to Annie. “That boy,” he said, and grinned.

  “Where’s his brother?” Annie asked.

  “In bed, reading. You know, I miss reading to him, but I guess it’s a good thing that he wants to read himself.”

  “I know. I miss it, too.”

  “What’s that?” he said, pointing to her card.

  “A Hanukkah card from Hannah. Remember her?”

  “Oh boy, do I. How is she?”

  Hannah had been next on the killer’s list; he had actually managed to kidnap and drug her before Detective Adam Bryant and his team found her. It took many months for the young woman to get over that.

  “I think she’s fine,” Annie said. “She invited me to come to the bakery. Think I’ll go and pick up something for the first night of Hanukkah.”

  “I have their whistles wrapped,” he told her.

  “Oh good. The boys will love them, but I’m certain we’ll be sorry we bought them,” she said with a laugh.

  Chapter 7

  Beatrice stood at her turquoise Formica counter and poured the brownie batter into her pan. Herb Alpert’s Christmas music was bl
aring in the background. She loved baking with the music on. She sat the pan aside and opened the oven door. The nut cups smelled done. She took in the scent of them and pulled them from the oven, sat them aside on the counter, and placed the brownie batter in the oven.

  She planned to let the nut cups cool and then take them out of the pan. She checked the time: 11:35 A.M.

  In the meantime, the phone rang. She saw from the caller ID it was Elsie, one of the women from the Christmas bazaar she was helping with. This year the historical society was helping raise money for the Cumberland Creek Area Food Bank and Beatrice was in charge, much to the chagrin of Elsie Mayhue.

  “Hello, Bea, this is Elsie,” the voice said.

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to let you know that we’ve gotten another three vendors and I’m wondering if you think there’s space for one more.”

  “Of course there’s room,” Bea said, thinking this woman really needed to learn to do things for herself.

  “Okay, I’ll let them in and also let Leola know so that she can place their names in the program,” she said.

  “Okay, sounds good,” Bea said, and hung up the phone just as the doorbell rang. She took a deep whiff of the rich scent of brownies as she walked into the foyer. Through the peephole she glimpsed two men she’d never seen before in her life. Standing on her porch, both were dressed in suits and one had a briefcase.

  She opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Beatrice Matthews?” the taller man asked. He was blond, baby faced, and wore Clark Kent glasses.

  “Yes,” she said, wiping her hand on her apron.

  “Investigator Len Springer, and this is my associate Ben Waters.” He showed her his badge. “May we come in?”

  “I don’t know,” Bea said. “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk with you about a group of women you know who are on the Jezebel,” he replied.

  “What’s that?”

  Suddenly Jon was by her side.

  “That’s the name of the ship that is holding a scrapbooking cruise,” the other agent said. “May we come in?” he asked again.

  “I guess,” Beatrice said, and opened her door. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the living room area, which held two couches and several chairs. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

  “No, ma’am, but thank you,” the blond one said. “We’d like to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” Bea said. “What’s going on?”

  The other suited man sat down on her favorite chair, so she sat on the chair next to it, while the blond sat on the couch with Jon.

  “We’ve been sent by our office, who was contacted by the cruise line.”

  “I presumed,” Beatrice said.

  “There was an untimely death on board the ship—”

  “I know. I just spoke with my daughter. I don’t know what I can tell you about any of that,” Beatrice said.

  “Is your daughter Vera Matthews?”

  “Yes. Is she okay?”

  “We think so. We’re not here about her. We’re here about Sheila Rogers,” the other man said. “She listed you as next of kin.”

  “What? What about her husband? And is she okay?”

  “We stopped by their house and he wasn’t at home. So we wondered if there was any information you could give us.”

  “I’ve known her a long time,” Beatrice said. “Since she was born, as a matter of fact.” Did he say “next of kin”? Isn’t that what they say when someone dies? She grabbed her chest and repeated, “Is she okay?”

  “This is so hard,” the younger, dark man said. “But no, she’s not okay. We regret to inform you that Sheila was killed this morning. We think it was food poisoning. We’re so sorry.”

  Bea gasped. “No! There must be some mistake. I just spoke with Vera. She’d certainly have told me this.”

  “It just happened,” one man said. “This morning.”

  The other man reached into his bag and fumbled around with his paperwork. He fished out an official-looking paper and showed it to Beatrice and Jon. There was a passport photo of Sheila and a death notice from the cruise line. Attached to that was a report that the cause of death looked like poisoning. “The subject had gone to the infirmary complaining of stomach cramps approximately two hours earlier.”

  Beatrice’s head spun. This didn’t make any sense. Certainly Vera would have told her if Sheila had been ill. Who were these men?

  “Gentlemen, I’d like you to leave my home,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure that Sheila Rogers is still alive. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing or what kind of idiot you take me for—”

  “Beatrice,” Jon interrupted, and reached for her hand. “Please calm down.”

  She pulled away from him and stood up. “Out! Out! Before I get my gun after you! How dare you come into my home and spread such vicious lies.”

  The men stood.

  “Are you threatening federal officers?” the blond said.

  “Hmph, if that’s even who you are,” she said. “And I’m giving you until the count of ten.”

  “Mrs. Matthews—”

  “Ten,” she said with a sternness that scared even herself. Damn, she still had it.

  “Fine, we’re leaving. But we’ll be back,” the young man said.

  “Nine,” she said.

  The blond turned around to look at her. “We are sorry for your loss.”

  “Eight,” she said.

  After the men left and the door was shut, she dead-bolted it.

  “What was that all about?” Jon said.

  “I don’t know,” Beatrice said, her voice now quivering. “I’m going to call Vera.”

  When Vera picked up the phone she seemed breathless. “Yes, Mama? Everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine here, except that two FBI officers were here and claimed that Sheila is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Where is Sheila? She there with you?” Beatrice asked.

  “No, Eric and I left the crop when she didn’t come back.”

  “She didn’t come back?”

  “She went looking for someone with Paige and they didn’t come back. We figured they found something else to do.”

  “So you left the crop,” Beatrice said, trying not to raise her voice, but she heard the edge in it and hoped Vera did, too.

  “Well, yes. Eric and I . . . were a bit tired and decided to nap,” Vera said.

  “Nap, heh?” Beatrice said, and paused. She suspected there was no sleeping going on during their “nap.” “So you’re certain Sheila is okay?”

  Vera didn’t answer right away and Bea heard shuffling going on in the background. “I don’t know anything for sure,” Vera said. “But we saw her an hour ago and she was fine.”

  Beatrice didn’t know what to say to that. There was some kind of weird misunderstanding going on.

  “Don’t you think that someone would have told us if something happened to Sheila?” Vera said after a minute.

  “I don’t know, Vera. But you better go and find out, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 8

  “Is there a problem here, Sheila?” A warm voice came from behind her. It was Grace Irons, the woman in charge of the whole scrapbooking cruise.

  “Well, I . . . I . . .” Sheila started to say. “Allie borrowed my scrapbook and you know what’s happened, right?”

  “Yes, it’s a shame. I feel so bad,” she said, her face red with emotion. “This has never happened during one of my events, I assure you.”

  “I don’t mean to seem insensitive, but my scrapbook is in her room and I want it back,” Sheila said, crossing her arms.

  “Just a minute,” Grace said, and walked by her.

  “Well,” Paige said. “This cruise is getting more interesting by the minute. Allie was killed? This will be big news.”

  Sheila turned to face her. “Who would want to kill her?”

  “I know she was nice to you,” Paige
said. “But she was a bitch, from what I heard. She didn’t treat her employees very nicely. The cops might start questioning the people who worked for her.”

  “But there are no policemen here on this cruise,” Sheila said, under her breath. “Only this security outfit.”

  “Aren’t they police?” Paige asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. They’re hired by the cruise company.”

  “Surely they have police training or something,” Paige said, bewildered.

  “I have no idea,” Sheila said, and flung her arms out. “Just what exactly is taking them so long to get my scrapbook back to me? Seems like it should be easy enough to retrieve it.”

  “Sheila! There you are.” Vera’s voice rang through the corridor. She ran down the stretch of the hallway, with Eric trailing behind her.

  Sheila stood, discombobulated by Vera’s hysteria. “What on earth?”

  “Mama called and was worried about you,” she said, a bit breathless. “I told her there was nothing to worry about.”

  “Why was she worried about me? I don’t understand. The old bat,” Sheila scowled.

  “No, seriously,” Eric said. “Evidently she thought you were dead. Poisoned.”

  She gasped.

  Paige’s hands went to her mouth. “So odd,” she said.

  “Someone is dead all right,” Sheila said. “But it’s Allie. I have no idea why anybody would think it’s me.”

  By that time, Grace had walked back out to her, followed by Matt.

  “Matt, Mrs. Rogers is one of our guests of honor. She’s one of the reasons we’re all here on this cruise,” Grace said.

  Sheila beamed.

  “Why did someone visit Ms. Beatrice Matthews in Cumberland Creek, Virginia, and report that Sheila was dead?” Eric asked, point blank. “What’s going on here?”

  “I have no idea who would do that, let alone why. Someone must have mixed up the reports,” Matt said. “I am so sorry.”

  “That’s terrible!” Grace said. “Is Ms. Matthews okay?”

  “Of course she is. She’s my mother, by the way. She didn’t believe a word of it. But it frightened her. She wanted to know what the hell is going on here. As do I,” Vera said. “What kind of a cruise is this where someone gets killed and it’s reported that someone else was killed? What a bunch of hooey.”