“What was he doing in the bar? Drinking? Eating?”
“He was having a drink with Theresa Graves.”
“You all should talk to that one,” Vera said.
“Excuse me?” the agent said to her, obviously charmed and trying not to smile.
“She was heckling Sheila during her photo class, rather loudly. Something ain’t right with her,” Vera said. “And our friend Annie said she has a record.”
The agent smiled and crossed his arms.
“People don’t heckle on my scrapbooking cruises,” Grace Irons said.
“She did. You can ask anybody who was there,” said Vera, as if it were the juiciest bit of information.
“I don’t believe it!” Grace said, then looked at Sheila. “Is this true?”
Sheila felt the blood rush to her face as she nodded. “It was so embarrassing. I don’t know what made her do it.”
“What was that woman’s name again?” Agent Walters asked.
“Theresa Graves.”
“She was seen talking with Harold right before he was killed?”
“Yes, she said they were friends,” Sheila said.
“What else did she say?”
“Well . . .” Sheila took a deep breath and mentally sifted through that night. “They both had been crying. He didn’t look well at all and she said he was very upset because of Allie’s death. They were . . . close friends. But he left when I arrived.”
“How long were you with Theresa?”
“Maybe an hour. We had dinner and I left.”
“And who is Annie?” Agent Walters asked. She was one of those women who made the other women in the room feel inadequate. Drop dead gorgeous, with a tight-cropped short haircut and a face right out of a magazine. Plus, her intelligence was easily sensed.
Sheila explained.
“Mrs. Rogers, please take my card, and if there’s anything else you can remember, please call,” Walters said, and handed her a card. “In the meantime, your discretion would be appreciated, ladies.” Sheila noted the beautifully manicured, clean, short fingernails.
“Well,” Vera spoke up. “We may have some other leads for you.”
It was like a scene out of a TV show. All of them stopped what they were doing and looked at Vera. Sheila elbowed her.
Vera waved her off and went on. The woman loved an audience—and she had one. “Since we knew it was a murder and had been talking to our friends back where we live in Cumberland Creek, Virginia, we came up with a plan, you see, to try to find out who the killer was.”
“Why?” Agent Pereles said. “Why would you do that?”
“For one reason,” Vera said.
Oh, she’s good. And she’s loving every minute of this, Sheila thought.
“For our own safety,” Vera concluded.
“Why would you think you’re not safe? I don’t understand,” the woman agent said.
“Well, the security on this ship is mighty lax, if you ask me. They told my mother that Sheila was killed—”
“Yes, yes, we know about that. It was a mix-up with the report.”
“I still don’t know how that happened,” said Matthew Kirtley—the first time he spoke during the entire meeting.
“So we decided to come up with our own list of suspects. Knowing that most killers are men,” Vera said, ignoring him.
Sheila took a closer look at Matthew. He appeared so normal. How could he think he’s a vampire?
“Is that right?” Agent Pereles smiled.
“Everybody knows that,” Vera said. “Now, we narrowed it down to the men who are not traveling with their wives.”
“Why is that?”
“Most killers don’t travel with their wives,” Vera said.
Sheila noted that the agents were stifling laughter. “So, we’ve been looking for these guys and found a few,” Vera went on.
“What was your name again?” Agent Walters asked, carefully taking notes.
“Vera Matthews,” she said. “Do you need that list from me?”
“No,” Agent Pereles said. “We’ll be able to get that information. But thanks so much for everything.”
Vera grinned wide. Sheila rolled her eyes.
The gentlemen in the room shifted around like they were getting ready to leave.
“One more thing,” Vera said. “There’s this person named Sharon Milhouse on board.”
“Yes?”
Sheila paled and bit her lip.
“I have no idea of it’s the same person we knew in college, but we knew a Sharon Milhouse who tried to kill Sheila’s husband and also sent threatening notes. She was sent to the Richmond Institution. We’ve seen her name on the roster, but we can’t seem to find her. I’ve been leaving her messages,” Vera said.
“Why?” Agent Pereles asked.
“We need to know if it’s the same person, don’t you think? If she’s on board and has a history—”
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Matthews. We’ll take it from here,” Agent Pereles responded.
“There is one more thing,” Detective Walters said. A few of the ship’s crew stepped forward with scrapbooks in huge see-through plastic bags. Six scrapbooks thudded as they were dropped onto the table. Sheila sucked in a breath.
“Which one of those books is yours?” Pereles said.
Sheila stood and walked over to the other end of the long table and felt her throat clutch as she spotted her beloved book.
“That one is mine,” she said, first pointing to it and then starting to reach for it.
“Can’t let you have it yet,” Pereles said. “Sorry. We only needed you to ID it for us. Thanks so much. You can leave now, ladies.” His tone was cold and dismissive.
“Wait. When will I get it back?” Sheila said as she was being shoved out the door.
“We’ll get it to you when we’re finished with it. It’s evidence.”
“Evidence?” Sheila managed to say before the door shut. She looked at Vera and lifted her arms and shoulders in a huge shrug. “Evidence? In a murder case? My scrapbook?”
Vera laughed. “Crazy!”
Sheila wrapped her arm around her best friend since childhood. She couldn’t imagine a life without her—even if she loved to “perform” everywhere she went.
“At least we know my scrapbook didn’t go overboard!” Sheila said.
Vera stopped walking and grabbed Sheila by the shoulders. “Now that we know it’s on board, maybe we can swipe it.”
“Yeah, right,” Sheila said. “Nobody says ‘swipe’ anymore, by the way, old woman. And nobody is going to take that scrapbook away from the FBI.”
Chapter 41
Annie walked down the aisles of the grocery store, heading toward the bread. She popped three loaves into her cart. “Three loaves? Are you feeding an army?” a friend had once said to her when they were shopping together.
“My boys eat a lot of sandwiches,” Annie had explained. Truth is, they’d go through that bread in less than a week, which was why she was here on a Sunday afternoon. They had run out of bread and milk. No matter how she tried to plan for groceries, they ran out of something before week’s end.
Annie loved the fact that the grocery store had recently expanded its hours and was now open on Sundays, which turned out to be a great day to shop because not many people shopped on Sundays in Cumberland Creek.
Christmas music played in the background. By this point in the season, Annie was pretty sick of the music. She turned the corner and headed for the dairy section and ran right smack into Steve Rogers, Sheila’s husband.
He laughed. “Where are you going so fast?”
“Just to get milk,” she said, and smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before, Steve.”
“I hate this place. Sheila usually shops,” he replied. He looked forlorn and Annie was torn between feeling sorry for him and wanting to shake him.
“They’ll be home soon,” Annie said, starting to move her cart around Steve.
“What do you mean?” Annie asked.
“Sheila was questioned by the FBI today. Imagine,” he replied.
“That means nothing, Steve. They’re investigating. Of course they need to talk with her. She discovered Allie’s body,” Annie said, moving her cart beyond his so that they stood beside one another. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re worried. I am, too. But Sheila can handle herself.”
“I know that,” he said, after a minute. “It’s just . . . it all seems so weird. The note. The murders.”
“Yes, I’ll give you that. And now this business about Sharon Milhouse.”
Steve paled. “What?”
Annie realized nobody had told him about Sharon. “I’m sorry, Steve. We’ve been trying to figure out who could have killed Allie and were looking at the passenger list. . . .”
“Sharon Milhouse is on board?” he stammered.
“We’re not sure it’s the same person that you once knew,” Annie said. He didn’t look good; his eyes widened as he paled even more. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Was he going to have a heart attack standing there in the grocery store? “In fact, Bryant said it’s a long shot. A very long shot,” she added.
“She’s still in the Richmond Institution, right?” Steve said, after a moment.
Annie shrugged and glanced away. She wished she had not told Steve all of this. He was coming undone. Yet, she couldn’t quite lie to him. That wouldn’t be fair. “Bryant’s looking into all of this. You should call him,” she said, starting to walk away.
“Damned right I will. I want my wife to come home. Now. I want her to get on a plane and leave the cruise and come home where she belongs,” he said. Something about his voice made Annie spin around to look at him. Was it just her safety he was concerned about or was it something else?
“Steve,” Annie said, “you can’t mean that. So there was a little trouble; Sheila will be fine. And think of all the people she’s meeting. All of the opportunities she has laid down at her feet right now. She’s so talented. Finally, she’s being appreciated for it.”
With each word, Steve reacted as if she were pinching him instead of talking to him. He resembled a beleaguered child standing there, with his shoulders drooping.
“You’ll be fine,” Annie said, and gave him a playful punch. “Gotta run, Steve. If you need anything, give us a call.”
“Thanks, Annie,” he said as she moved toward the milk.
Oh boy. What was that all about? Was Steve unhappy that Sheila was off pursuing her dreams? He’d always seemed so cool and supportive about everything. But this was the first time Sheila had left home on business. Usually he was the one traveling through the mountains with his outfitting company. One thing was certain: he didn’t like his wife being gone. But Annie was uncertain how much of that was worry because of the murder, or maybe disdain because Sheila had the audacity to leave her family for a few days. Oy.
Sheila and Steve had been married for a long time. What—twenty-some years? Had four kids. And Sheila had always stayed at home, but also built her scrapbooking supply business. She’d always done it from home. This was new, this traveling around with successful scrapbookers. Could Steve be insecure after all those years of marriage? Or was he just being an asshole?
Good thing she didn’t tell him about Theresa Graves. He might be hopping the next plane to the Caribbean to fetch his wife. What was a woman like that doing in the scrapbooking world? Annie shrugged. Scrapbooking attracted a wide variety of people—that was for sure. And why wouldn’t it? Once you got over the overwhelming quality of it—where to start? I’m so behind! I know nothing about design!—it was fun and felt very rewarding to capture your family’s memories. Sheila had gone into some local prisons and taught some scrapbooking classes and she said the classes filled up every time.
“Everybody has a story to tell,” Sheila liked to say.
Annie thought about Mary Schultz, the woman she was writing about. She definitely had a story to tell. She needed to get that book done and out of her life. She’d been dreaming about her again. Sad dreams. Scary dreams. Mary’s life was both sad and scary.
As Annie placed her bread and milk on the counter to be paid for, she thought about human frailty. And how sometimes it turned into ugliness and violence.
Chapter 42
“You’ve never seen such a beautiful garden, with all of these wild-looking flowers. I can’t wait to show you the pictures,” Vera said over the phone to Beatrice. “Then we came back to the ship and Sheila was questioned by the FBI.”
“Thank goodness the FBI is finally there. Maybe they can get to the bottom of what’s happening on that ship,” Beatrice said. “And let’s hope those agents have it more together than the ones who visited me the other day.”
“They seemed to be real professional. But they kept Sheila’s scrapbook.”
“Why?”
“It’s evidence.”
“Really?”
“Well, I think it was in her room and everything. Maybe that’s why, but we laughed and laughed about Sheila’s scrapbook being evidence,” Vera said, and laughed a bit more.
“Now, that is funny,” Beatrice said, grinning widely. “Have a good time at the awards ceremony tonight. And try to be careful.”
“I feel so much safer knowing the FBI is here,” Vera said.
“I understand that, but remain vigilant. Have you all talked to any more of the men on your list?”
“No. We haven’t been able to find them yet. It’s a huge ship. We were lucky to find who we did. We’ll keep at it, though.”
“Just make it a policy to stay away from single men on the ship. That ought to do.”
“On more than one level, I’m sure,” Vera said, and paused a beat. “I’m more concerned about Sharon Milhouse.”
“Anything ever come of that? I mean did you find her? Is it the same one?”
“Nothing. The thought of her being on this ship freaks me out. But now the FBI is on it.”
“Just a possibility that she’d be there, anyway—a very remote one, statistically speaking,” Beatrice said.
“Oh Mama, you and your statistics,” Vera said, and laughed. “But this time I like those odds. That woman scared me half to death. Steve too. Sheila didn’t even know the half of it. But one morning Steve woke up with her in his bed. Completely naked, smeared with blood. Another time, she showed up in one of his classes with a gun. It turned out to be a fake. So many other stories. I’ll fill you in when I get home.”
“So what’s on the docket for today?” Beatrice changed the subject.
“We’re shopping this afternoon. We’re heading back to Florida tomorrow. They shortened our land time to a day. We really want to take a look around. Then tonight is the award ceremony. Sheila’s as excited as could be.”
That thought warmed Beatrice. “The scrapbooking queen is excited? Imagine that,” Beatrice said, and harrumphed.
“She’s been offered several different jobs since she’s been here.”
“Jobs? Where? In Cumberland Creek?”
“No, I don’t think so. Most of the companies are somewhere else, but she’s talking about freelancing. One minute, Eric. I’m on the phone with Mama.”
“Go ahead and go. Don’t spend too much money shopping,” Beatrice said, and hung up the phone. Well, Sheila had been offered some jobs. How fabulous was that?
Beatrice had no more than hung up her phone than it was ringing again.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey, Bea, it’s Elsie.”
“Yes? What can I help you with?”
“Well, I had some questions about the bazaar.”
“And?”
“We’ve gotten three more vendors and one wants a specific table.”
“It’s our policy that we don’t allow that. It’s first come, first served that morning. You know that,” Bea
trice said.
“I know, but I’m trying to appease them.”
“Blame it on me. You can tell them I’m a Grinch. I don’t mind.”
“If they are still interested, you’re sure there’d be space?”
“Oh yes, plenty of space,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes. Lawd, the woman was driving her mad about the space issue. “I think I’ve told you that now about a million times. You need to relax about the damned space.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Bea,” she snapped. “I want everything to go smoothly. I don’t want vendors coming back to us with complaints about space.”
“Look,” Beatrice said. “It’s a charity event. If any of them complain about anything, then shame on them.”
Elsie was silent for a moment, then laughed nervously, more like a twitter really. “You’re right, and if any of them complain, I’ll tell them just that.”
“We need to keep reminding ourselves and the vendors that we are trying to raise funds for the hungry. We have plenty of hungry people right here in our area. That’s why we are doing this—not to show off our products or whatever. People need to get a grip. It’s friggin’ Christmas,” Beatrice said.
“Friggin’ Christmas indeed,” Elsie muttered.
Chapter 43
When Sheila woke up the next day, she was surprised to find that she’d fallen asleep in her evening gown. After spending half the day shopping in Grand Caymen and the evening at the awards banquet, she’d stretched out on her bed to unwind before getting ready for bed. Hmmm. And here she was. Completely dressed and made up. She struggled to get out of bed and glanced at herself in the mirror, laughing out loud. What a mess!
And last night she’d looked the prettiest she had ever looked, except for maybe her wedding day.
She had sat at the head table with all of the big designers and talked about design, trends, paper versus digital, and how many exciting changes were happening in their field. When the time for the award came, Sheila’s heart had raced. She’d be speaking in front of two thousand people, those in the huge dining room and those in the other dining rooms who watched from monitors.
“We have a very special guest this evening. Sheila Rogers, who is the winner of our Creative Spirit Award, has been scrapbooking for thirty years. She has a successful home-based scrapbooking business and, I might add, she maintains a weekly crop along with running her household. Did I mention she has four children?” Grace had said.
A Crafty Christmas Page 15
