“We’ll be at the Queen Elizabeth Two Botanic Park in about fifteen minutes,” the guide said. “This heritage attraction was officially opened on the twenty-seventh of February, 1994, by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the second and named in her honor.”
“This should be gorgeous,” Randy said. “I’m so excited about this.”
“One of the things the park is known for is our blue iguanas, a rare species. You should be able to get a view of them this morning. They like to sun themselves in midmorning,” said the guide.
“They are in cages, right?” Vera suddenly asked.
“We have an enclosed habitat that provides a natural home for an adult male blue iguana, which can be seen by visitors.”
Vera sat up taller and her eyes widened. But it wasn’t because of the tour guide’s statement. Sheila followed her eyes. It was hard to see because of the bus seat, but Sheila observed what Vera saw: the man who had been staring at Sheila throughout the trip. And he was with Theresa Graves, which was interesting, as he seemed a lot younger than her. Oh well, to his or her own.
But was he her husband? Sheila tried to remember if they had talked about her husband. A sourness formed in her as she remembered how discouraging Theresa had been and how David himself of David’s Designs had no kind words about her. Sheila was fascinated by the competitive nature of these huge scrapbooking business owners. Couldn’t everybody get along?
Vera’s eyes met Sheila’s and she tilted her head in the couple’s direction. Sheila nodded.
When they disembarked from the bus, Sheila took over and led the group to the visitor center. They all had real cameras draped around their necks. She was happy that nobody was there with cell phone cameras. The guide from the center gave them a quick orientation and they were off.
First stop: the “color gardens.”
The pink garden’s collection consisted of rose and green caladiums, Anderson Crepe hibiscus, Cordyline morado, and exotic large bromeliads including Aech-mea Victoria.
“Keep the sun in mind when you are shooting these flowers,” Sheila said. “Make sure it’s at your back.”
“Like we don’t know that,” came a voice from the back, and a group of people giggled.
Sheila ignored the jab.
“We have about ten minutes here and then we move on through the rest of the colors,” Sheila said.
Vera eyed her and then leaned in. “Did you hear that?”
Sheila nodded. “Who was it?”
“Theresa,” Paige said, interrupting. “She’s got a group of some of the most negative people I’ve ever heard. They are all laughing and joking, but I don’t see them taking pictures.”
Sheila shrugged. ‘You get all kinds,” she said.
As they moved through to the red gardens, a young woman asked her if she had ever made a garden scrapbook.
“I haven’t,” Sheila said. “I’m not much of a gardener. But I have customers who have made garden scrapbooks. Really lovely.”
“I’ve made a few myself,” the woman said. “I inherited this old rose garden with our house and I’m fascinated by the shapes and colors of the roses. The way at different times of the day the light makes the pink roses look almost orange, sometimes yellow.”
“What an interesting observation,” Sheila said.
“Not really,” came that same voice, and then more laughter.
A shot of anger tore through Sheila. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said in her most polite voice to the woman, who had reddened.
Sheila made her way easily to the back of the crowd where Theresa stood with her gaggle of friends.
“Are you having a good time?” Sheila asked, concentrating still on trying to be polite, but allowing her eyes to shoot daggers.
Theresa’s posture changed a bit—she wasn’t expecting Sheila to seek her out, to face her. She didn’t answer, but simply looked at the man standing next to her, the man who had been freaking Sheila out the entire trip.
The others looked in Theresa’s direction, expecting an answer.
“Yes, of course,” Theresa said.
“Good,” Sheila replied as sweet as she could muster.
Theresa shot her a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
What the hell had Sheila ever done to the woman?
An uncomfortable hush came over the group.
“Well now, Ms. Fancy Pants scrapbooking diva bitch, I think you should either shut your mouth or find another tour group who will put up with your nonsense. We’re here to learn from Sheila Rogers,” a voice said from behind Sheila.
It was the woman who had been discussing her roses. A stunned silence came from the group as Theresa reddened and huffed off in anger. Vera and the others applauded.
Sheila took the rose lady’s arm. “Thanks so much,” she said. “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Chapter 38
Annie was cleaning up from a late breakfast when the phone rang.
“Hey,” Bea said on the other end of the phone. “I talked to Bryant.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d check into all of it and get back with us.”
“That’s it?”
“Oh yes—he thanked me for the information about the strange man and car I saw last night. In fact, he seemed more interested in him than the note, really.”
“You didn’t mention that to me,” Annie said, wiping the counter off with her dish towel.
Beatrice then explained what she had seen the night before. “Probably nothing, but with all the weird stuff happening, I thought it best to give Bryant the license plate number and let him know.”
“I suppose so,” Annie responded. “Will you let me know when he gets back to you?”
“If he gets back to me. He thanked me, was very polite, but made sure I knew this was police business.”
“Typical,” Annie said, but she knew he was right. Unless he needed more help from them, he had no obligation to fill them in on what was happening.
If she had time today, she’d try to sleuth around. But she was feeling a pull toward her art journal; if she had some free time, she wanted to work on it, along with her Hanukkah book. She was so thrilled that the scrapbooking supply businesses now carried many different kinds of Hanukkah materials. She loved the pieced-paper menorah kit she had purchased and the chipboard Star of David. And there was so much Jewish-themed paper that it was hard to choose. A few years ago, it was much harder to find anything relating to any other religion but Christianity. Cookie used to go off a bit about it—but Cookie was a Wiccan, an unconventional religion to say the least. Cookie sometimes used non-pagan paper and embellishments for pagan purposes. She relied a great deal on nature, celestial, and Halloween-themed papers.
Annie’s heart sank. She still missed Cookie and wondered about her frequently. Whatever became of her friend who was wrongly accused of murder? She was probably one of the kindest people she’d ever met. Last year Bryant slipped her information that he knew that Cookie was fine and that was all he could tell her. That settled Annie’s mind somewhat. She knew that Cookie had escaped from jail and was on the run—and that could lead to a number of dangerous situations. But she still yearned for her friendship and she knew the other scrapbookers did, as well.
“What are we having tonight?” Sam said, coming into the kitchen for a glass of milk.
“I’m making latkes,” Annie said. “Would you like to help shred the potatoes?”
He nodded. “Yep, I’m a good shredder.”
“I remember,” Annie said. “So I can count on you?”
He nodded and took a long sip of milk. “Why do I have to go to school tomorrow?”
“It’s only a few more days,” Annie said, folding her towel and hanging it over the side of her kitchen counter to air dry.
“Yes, but it’s Hanukkah,” he said.
“We’ve talked about this. Maybe someday we’ll be okay with you missing school for Hanukkah, but not
this year. You’ve already missed more days than you should because of the flu. School is important.”
“Someone trying to get out of school tomorrow?” Mike said as he walked into the room.
“Yep,” Annie said.
“But I don’t understand why we have Christmas off and not Hanukkah,” her son said.
“You know what? I don’t understand it either,” Annie said. “But it’s just the way it is.”
She tried to shrug it off. Where she grew up, it was the same way, even in a heavily populated Jewish area. For children, school was the most important thing. Besides, her parents were secular and most of her friends’ parents were, too. Hanukkah was not that big of a holiday for them.
“Poor boy,” Mike said with false sympathy.
“How about a cookie?” said Annie.
Sam’s face lit.
“Did someone say cookies?” Ben said as he came bounding into the kitchen.
Annie watched her three boys sharing cookies in her vintage kitchen. She’d miss this tiny kitchen if they ever saved enough money to move.
Later, after the boys got involved in a game with their father, she sat down at the computer and found an e-mail from Vera.
Annie, can you find out anything about Theresa Graves? She’s a big-time scrapbooker. But she’s been heckling Sheila. And she’s hanging out with a guy who’s been watching Sheila closely. We are still in the gardens. I stopped by the visitor center and hopped on the computer.
Annie looked at her clock; the e-mail had been sent an hour ago.
Heckling Sheila? How odd. Sounded like another unbalanced sort was on the cruise with them. Poor Sheila. Why couldn’t this scrapbook cruise have gone smoothly for her?
Annie clicked on the crime database and typed in “Theresa Graves.” A number of hits came up. The woman had quite the record: domestic violence, DUI, a drug arrest, and . . . attempted murder. Attempted murder? This was the woman heckling Sheila? Could she be the person who’d poisoned Allie and Hank? And what would she have against Sheila?
Annie grabbed her cell phone and sent Vera a text message. She hoped Vera received it before it was too late.
Chapter 39
Beatrice was eating lunch when the phone rang. It was Detective Bryant.
“Well, twice in one day. Aren’t I a lucky woman?” she said after answering the phone.
The detective laughed. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you remember about Sharon Milhouse? About that time in Vera’s and Sheila’s lives?”
“Not much really,” she said after a moment. “It was such a busy time, with the girls graduating and so on. And I’m sure you know I didn’t know half of what went on. But I do remember Sheila getting death threats and thinking they were from Sharon.”
“Did anybody prove that?”
“Not that I know of. But then again, Sharon was carted off to the Richmond Institution. So it was dropped. Ever find out what happened to her?”
“She’s out,” he said after a minute. “I was trying to place her in Cumberland Creek, thinking maybe she left the postcard in Sheila’s mailbox. You know, maybe she was trying to settle an old score.”
A chill traveled up Beatrice’s spine. “Where’s the woman now?”
“I’m working on that. She’s not easy to find, which troubles me. I have no idea if this Sharon Milhouse on the cruise is the same one or not. I’m waiting to hear back from their security team,” he said. “Hell, she may be right here in Cumberland Creek for all we know.”
“Let’s hope not,” Bea said. “Very few people have scared me in my life. But I remember the vacant, strange look on that woman’s face and it frightened me.”
“If she’s on the cruise, it could be a coincidence, right?” Bryant said, as if he was talking to himself.
“I’m not sure I believe in coincidence—or at least not as most people seem to see it,” Beatrice said after a momentary pause. She was reminded of what Albert Einstein said: “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
Does the unexpected only seem like a coincidence because we are unaware of the complex order behind it? Beatrice often pondered the “coincidence of a higher order,” which was based on connections that science was now beginning to discover.
“I believe in a certain order behind most events,” Beatrice said.
“We’re in agreement about that,” the detective replied. “But every once in a while, something does happen that appears to be unexplainable.”
“In the short term, perhaps,” Beatrice said. She took a long sigh. So many questions to be answered in the universe and she was running out of time. She’d never answer all of them by herself. “So will you let me know what you find out?”
“It depends, due to the nature of privacy acts and investigations and so on. We’ll see. But I appreciate your help. When you talked to Steve, was he able to think of anybody who doesn’t like Sheila?”
“No. Sheila is well liked. But I can’t imagine that everybody likes her. There has to be someone . . . besides that Sharon from so long ago. That’s a long shot.”
“But it’s all we have on the note,” Bryant said. “A long shot.”
Beatrice finished her sandwich after they hung up. From time to time, she really liked Bryant. But other times he was nothing but a pain in the ass and seemed like he had no compassion.
But when she had been poisoned, he’d helped her out—and thank goodness for that or else she might be dead right now. But he hadn’t been very polite when he was questioning her about Cookie. In fact, he was downright rude. Hmmm. But maybe he had been frustrated. He knew something was going on and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She smiled. He was right—even though she still had no idea what was actually going on with Cookie and her escape. The more the detective tried to understand it all, the more it confounded him. She knew how he felt.
She checked out her Christmas tree and noticed a gap in the trimming. She rose from where she was sitting and moved some ornaments around. Flipping on the stereo, she slid in a Christmas CD. It was Christmas, damn it! And she was going to get into the spirit of things and not dwell on Cookie. Nor did she want to dwell on what had happened on that cruise ship—or what could still happen. There was nothing she could do about it from here.
Maybe all she needed was a few cookies. That should do it; nothing like gingerbread cookies to bring on the Christmas spirit. She resisted smacking her lips together.
Chapter 40
Sheila immediately knew something was wrong when the bus driver pulled up to the bus stop, which was right next to the dock where the Jezebel was sitting. Shiny black cars and about twelve young men wearing dark clothing and sunglasses greeted them. She and Vera exchanged an anxious glance as they got off the bus.
Matthew was in the midst of it. “Mrs. Rogers,” he said, stretching his hand out to her. She backed away and cringed—the man thought he was a vampire. The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that he could be the murderer of poor Allie and her boyfriend.
He noticed her shrinking away and tilted his head. “Mrs. Rogers, I’m not going to hurt you. FBI agents are here and want to talk with you. I told you they were coming.”
“Me? Why me?” she managed to say.
Vera’s arm slipped around her.
“Because you were the person who discovered Allie’s body,” Matthew said slowly, as if she were two years old.
“May I please come with her?” Vera asked.
Matthew glanced at one of the young men standing nearby. He must have been an FBI agent. He looked like he was about eighteen. How old did an agent have to be?
“Certainly, you can come with her,” he said. “Please follow me.”
He led them back onto the ship and two of the young men followed.
Paige, Randy, and Eric waved as the two of them looked over their shoulders one last time before boarding the Jezebel.
Grace Iron
s, the woman in charge of the scrapbooking cruise, joined them once they were on the ship.
“I’m so sorry for this inconvenience,” she said.
“No worries,” Sheila said. “I’m sure it won’t take much of my time. I don’t have much to say, really. But if I can help find out who killed Allie, I’m happy to share what I know.”
The group walked through the marble foyer with a huge cascading crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, then off to one of the side corridors to a room with a shut door.
“Mrs. Rogers,” Matthew said, opening the door and gesturing for her to enter. She did, followed closely by Vera.
A few people were already there, including a woman who smiled at Sheila and Vera as they sat down. Introductions were made. The officer in charge, a ruddy-complexioned man named Ron Pereles, asked for Sheila to tell them about the morning she tripped over Allie’s body. She recounted her story.
“Mrs. Rogers,” Agent Melinda Walters spoke up.
“What were you doing up and running at that time of day?”
She shrugged. “I run every day.”
“But not yesterday or today?” she asked.
“I haven’t been feeling up to it.” Sheila pointed to her head. “Mild concussion.”
The officer nodded.
“Did you think it was odd that Allie wanted to see your scrapbook again the night before she died?” Pereles said.
She thought a moment. “I was just so honored that she wanted to take another look at it. I’ve admired her for a very long time. So, at the time, I was flattered. But thinking back, I suppose it was odd.”
“How so?”
“I mean, I’m sure she had other things to do besides look at my scrapbook, which she had already seen once before.”
“I thought the same thing,” the agent replied.
Agent Walters cleared her throat. She held a pencil in her hand. Nobody else seemed to be taking notes. “Mrs. Rogers, can I ask you about Harold? When was the first time you saw him that night?”
“I saw him earlier in the bar. Then later in the hallway, after he had died.”
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