“Mama, you okay?” She ran up onto Sheila’s porch and grabbed her mother. “Are you okay?”
“Unhand me, Vera Matthews. I am fine,” Beatrice said. “It’s Sheila who’s going to the hospital.”
“Hospital? Why?” she said, looking around for Sheila.
“She found a dead body in the basement and passed out. It’s a safety precaution,” Beatrice replied.
Annie hoped she was right.
“A dead body!” Vera said. “What on earth is going on? Why does she keep tripping over dead bodies?”
“It is odd,” Jon said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You ain’t heard the best of it,” Beatrice said. “The dead body in the basement is the creepy guy from the cruise.”
Vera gasped. “What has Sheila gotten herself into?”
Annie was starting to wonder the same thing. Someone had it out for Sheila, and either wanted to kill her or frame her for murder. And with the same substance that was used to kill Allie and Harold. But why? What could a little middle-aged scrapbooking woman have done to elicit such hatred?
Chapter 59
Sheila and Steve lay in the same hospital room. Their kids had been taken to a “safe house” where they could clean up even more and change into new clothes. Nobody was allowed in or out of their home until there was a complete inspection and cleaning of the substance.
“If you for some reason got the ricin on your clothes, you should be safe now,” the doctor explained. “But if you breathed the substance in, we won’t know for a few more hours. After having a good look at both of you, I’d say that didn’t happen. But we need to be certain, you understand.”
“What kind of symptoms?” Sheila asked.
“You’d be having a hard time breathing, maybe coughing or fever,” the doctor said nonchalantly.
“I feel fine,” Steve said. “I’d like to go home.”
“Me too,” Sheila said. “We’re expecting our daughter anytime to come home from school and we had planned to shop and—”
“I’m sorry, folks. I know it’s the Christmas season and all that, but we have to follow CDC guidelines. You could have ingested a lethal substance. I’ll be back in a little while,” he said before leaving the room.
Steve flicked on the TV. “Might as well relax,” he said, and flipped the channel.
“Nothing relaxing about that,” Sheila said, crossing her arms.
“What do you want to do?” he snipped at her.
“Let’s sit in silence. Or talk. How about that? Let’s talk.”
“About what?” Steve said, shutting off the TV with the remote and sitting up on the edge of the bed.
“I was offered a job,” she blurted out.
His head tilted in, as if he hadn’t heard right. “A job?”
Sheila gazed at the cheap prints on the wall. Flowers and puppies. As if that could make the fact that you might have been poisoned okay. As if that could make the fact that your husband wasn’t going to like your news—not one little bit—better.
“What kind of a job?” he asked.
“I’d be freelancing for a design company, designing scrapbooks,” she said. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
“Does that mean you’d be working from home?” he asked.
A nurse poked her head in the door. “Can I get you some water?” she asked.
Steve nodded.
“Yes, please,” said Sheila.
“For the most part,” she continued once the nurse had left. “I’d have to go in to the office once a month or so.”
“Where’s that?”
“New York City,” she replied quietly.
Several minutes passed. Time seemed to stretch and the room seemed to stand watch over them.
“Is that something you want to do?” Steve finally asked.
“I’m not thrilled about going to New York City, but other than that, yes. I’d love to do this. I loved the people and I’ve respected their work for a long time. It’s like a dream come true for me,” she said, tears welling for the first time since she started considering the offer. It was. It was a dream come true. And she wouldn’t be able to stand it if her husband did not support her one hundred percent. It would hurt too much.
He moved over to her bed, squeezed in next to her, and held her hands in his. He brought them to his lips and kissed them. “I love you, Sheila. We’ll make it work. I’m so proud of you.”
Her heart exploded; tears, sweat, and snot streamed down her face. He handed her a tissue.
“Lord, woman, clean yourself up,” he said.
“Here, here, no fraternizing.” A nurse walked into the room with a pitcher of water and some glasses. She laughed.
Sheila and her husband toasted her new job with their ice cold water, both in their hospital gowns, with the winter sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Mom? Dad?” A voice came from the hallway.
“In here, Donna.” Sheila sat up straighter.
Her daughter’s eyes lit with excitement and fear. “What’s going on, Mama? Daddy? They wouldn’t let me into the house.”
Sheila leaped up out of bed and hugged her daughter, as did Steve.
“Sit down, Donna; we’ll explain,” Steve said.
“Unbelievable,” Donna said after they got done talking.
“Indeed,” Sheila said, then surveyed her daughter. “You look tired, honey. How’s school?”
Donna looked away. “It’s intense, Mom.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Steve asked.
“I think so, but I really need this break. No art. No design. Just bad TV and junk food. That’s what the doctor ordered,” she said, and laughed it off. But Sheila knew there was more to the story. Donna would tell her in her own time.
Sheila sighed. Donna had always been a challenge. Their firstborn was also their most stubborn and complicated. But once she found art and had a goal of becoming an artist, all of Donna’s troubles seemed to fall away. The boys. The drugs. The bad grades. For some kids, that’s all they needed—a passion—to straighten them up. That was the case with Donna. None of their other kids had given them any problems—so far.
“Where is everybody?” Donna asked.
“In a safe house. They promised us they’re okay.”
“God, I hope you weren’t poisoned,” Donna said, looking at her parents.
“I think we’re lucky that your mom didn’t touch anything,” Steve said. “She didn’t get close to the body. Or trip over it or anything.” He grinned and Sheila playfully hit him on the shoulder.
Sheila sighed and a hint of a smile appeared on her face. “My new goal in life is to not find or trip over any more dead people.”
Chapter 60
After putting the groceries away, Jon and Beatrice sat at the kitchen table mulling over the day’s events. The kettle went off and Beatrice got up to make some tea.
“At least your bazaar went well. It was an astounding success. How much money did you make for the food bank?” Jon asked.
“Over five thousand dollars,” Beatrice replied. “And a truckload of food!”
Jon stirred sugar in his tea while Beatrice pulled out a plastic container full of sugar cookies. She placed it on the table.
“Mmmm,” Jon said. “You are going to make me fat!”
“Hmph,” Beatrice said, as the front door opened.
Vera and Annie walked into the kitchen.
“Quite a day, heh?” Annie said.
“Tea?” Beatrice offered.
“I’ll get it, Mama,” Vera said, and poured them some tea.
“You look troubled,” Beatrice said to Annie.
“I’m trying to figure things out,” she said, reaching for the cup of tea as Vera handed it to her. “I mean, it’s pretty clear someone has it in for Sheila, but who? And why?”
“All I have to say is thank goodness she’s at the hospital where they can watch over her,” Vera said, sitting down at the table.
“Indeed,” Jon said, then bit into a cookie.
“The only person I’ve ever known to not like Sheila was Sharon Milhouse. But she was crazy. Then there was the woman on the cruise—what was her name? Theresa Graves—who heckled Sheila.”
“Maybe they’re connected in some way,” Beatrice said.
“Bryant said he couldn’t find Sharon Milhouse anywhere,” Annie said. “He called her parole officer and hasn’t heard back from him.”
Beatrice took a long sip of tea.
“You know, it occurs to me that maybe we’re looking in the wrong place for her,” Vera said.
“What do you mean?” Beatrice asked.
“I mean she was in the Richmond Institution. Maybe her most recent records are medical, not criminal,” Vera said.
“Vera! That’s brilliant,” Annie said.
“You don’t have access to medical records, do you?” Beatrice said to Annie.
She shook her head. “No.”
“I know someone who does,” Vera said.
“Now, wait a minute,” Beatrice said. “It might not be fair to ask your boyfriend to do that for you.”
“Can’t hurt to ask,” Jon said, shrugging.
“I’m going to give him a call and see what he says,” Vera said, and left the room.
Beatrice dunked her cookie in her tea. There was nothing like a tea-soaked sugar cookie.
“I don’t know how much sense it makes that Sharon Milhouse would be our killer,” Annie said.
“I agree,” Beatrice said after a moment. “But none of the rest of it makes sense. What links Sheila to the other murders except the scrapbooking competition? And none of those people are local.” Beatrice’s brain suddenly kicked in. Her eyes widened.
“What?” Annie said.
“I know Bryant has roadblocks up, but what if the person who killed the man in Sheila’s basement is still in town?”
“Hiding out in the open?” Annie said.
“If I were hiding in the open, where would I be?” Jon said.
“You know, I hadn’t mentioned this before, but I’ve been seeing a lot of strangers in the neighborhood. I mentioned it to Bryant, who reminded me about the new B and B,” Beatrice said.
“Well, let’s go,” Jon said.
“Now, hold on,” Annie said. “It’s a good idea, Beatrice. But we can’t all go traipsing over to the B and B and demand a guest list.”
“Oh, who needs to bother with that?” Vera said. “They have a guest book right there in the foyer.”
“Like our killer would sign a real name in the guest book,” Annie said. “What did you find out from Eric?” she asked as Vera reentered the kitchen.
“He says he can’t do it.”
“Why?” Beatrice said.
Vera waved her hand. “Confidentiality issues or some such nonsense.”
“Bother,” Beatrice said. “You had to hook up with a decent guy.”
“Oh well,” Vera said, shrugging.
“I’m happy to go over to the B and B and look around. I’ve been over there once before and it looked beautiful, but Elsie was getting some work done and invited me to come back and look when everything was complete,” Jon said.
“Yes, she’s taken quite a shine to you.” Beatrice elbowed him.
“Sounds like a great excuse to me,” Annie said, standing. “I’m going, too.”
Beatrice stood and began making up a gift bag of cookies. “Take this bag over with my holiday greetings.”
“Sure thing, Beatrice.” Jon went into the hallway and slipped his coat on. Annie tightened her scarf.
“It’s cold out there,” Beatrice said. “I hear snow is predicted.”
“Just in time for Christmas,” Vera said. “Lizzie will be thrilled.”
“Now, be careful over there,” Beatrice said.
“What do you mean? We’re only going to see who’s staying there,” Jon said. “Don’t worry.”
“Yes, but don’t forget—you are looking for a killer. A devious one at that. One who appears to have followed Sheila from the cruise to Cumberland Creek,” Beatrice said.
“Maybe the killer is afraid she knows something,” Vera said. “Maybe that’s all it is.”
“All?” Annie turned around. “That’s plenty for a killer who’s frightened someone can finger them.”
Beatrice felt a cold chill run through her. That Annie. She had a way of setting them all straight.
Chapter 61
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Annie said to Jon as they walked along the sidewalk. “You distract Elsie by chatting with her and I’ll look at the guest book and take some pictures on my phone. That way we can all look over the names later to see if any ring a bell. How does that sound?”
“Great plan,” Jon said. “I think I can do that.”
They walked up the sidewalk to the big sky blue gingerbread house. The only other house in the neighborhood that could compete with it in size and age would be Beatrice’s Victorian. The old iron gate creaked as they walked through it.
Jon rang the doorbell and Annie readied her phone in her hand. She didn’t want to be fussing with it when the time came to snap the photos.
Elsie answered the door. “Why, hello, Jon, Annie. Please come in.”
“Merry Christmas,” Jon said, and handed her the goodie bag Beatrice had made up for her. “From Bea.”
“Oh, isn’t that sweet!” she exclaimed. “Now, Jon, I know you’d like to see the new dining room. I’m so thrilled with the color, the floors, everything. Come on inside.”
Annie hung back in the foyer and headed for the guest book. She decided to work her way from the newest guest signatures to the last.
“Oh my!” she heard Jon exclaim. “What is the word for this color?”
“Chartreuse,” Elsie said.
“Did you choose the drapes? Impeccable.”
“I did,” she replied.
Jon laughed and their voices lowered as they moved further into the house.
Annie took the first photo without reading the names. She felt like she’d have to move quickly and couldn’t take the time to read the names, even though she desperately wanted to.
Click.
Her bag slid to the floor.
Turn the page. Click, click, click.
“Where did you ever get those prints?” Jon asked from afar.
Elsie’s answer was quieter. Annie couldn’t quite hear her.
Click, click, click.
Annie’s heart was racing. She would hate to get caught. How would she explain it?
She turned the page.
“The floors are remarkable. Who did you say did them, again?” Jon asked.
Click, click, click.
Annie turned another page.
“What are you doing?” The voice sounded from behind Annie and she gasped, slipping her phone into her pocket.
She turned to face a woman she didn’t recognize. “Excuse me?” Annie said.
“I asked you what you were doing,” the woman said. She was full of authority, even though she was thin and wiry. Even Annie could have knocked her down.
“Annie . . .” Jon poked his head into the room. “You simply have got to see what Elsie has done with this room.”
“Sure,” Annie said. “Friends,” she said vaguely, and pointed in the direction of Elsie and Jon, then gave a little wave to the woman as she walked into one of the tackiest rooms she’d ever seen in her life. She smiled and nodded, disappointed because she was certain she didn’t get to photograph all the names—but at least it was something to get started with.
“Would you like to stay for tea?” Elsie asked.
“I really need to get going,” Annie said.
“Me too,” Jon said. “Thanks for asking though. Can I take a rain check?”
“Absolutely. You too, of course, Annie,” she said.
“Sure thing,” Annie replied, thinking there was no way on God’s green earth that she’d sit down to tea i
n this overdecorated room. She’d lose her appetite. There was something to be said for the simplicity that her old friend Cookie Crandall used to talk about. She’d leave the tea and the B and B visits to Jon.
After Elsie saw them out and they were halfway to Beatrice’s house, Jon asked if she had gotten what they went there for.
Annie nodded. “Not all of the names, but those within the past few weeks, I’d say. And of course if our killer is there, we don’t know what name he or she would be using. So I don’t know if this exercise will do much good.”
“It’s worth a try,” Jon said.
When they turned the corner, there stood the woman who had caught Annie riffling through the register at the B and B. Annie smiled nervously and nodded at her.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I’m going to have to ask you for your phone.”
“Excuse me?” Annie said. “My phone? Why?”
“I saw you taking photos of the guest book. That’s private information,” she said, her chin quivering in anger. Or was it fear?
Jon laughed. “She was not taking pictures of the guest book. She was taking photos of the wallpaper for me.”
The woman looked confused. “But I could have sworn—” She stood in front of Annie.
“Step aside,” Annie said. “I’m not giving my phone to you, in any case.”
The woman stood her ground. “I can’t have people lurking around the place I’m staying. You understand.”
“We live here. Elsie is my friend. We were just visiting,” Jon said. “I don’t understand why it’s your concern.” His French accent was pronounced now. Beatrice always said she could tell when he was upset or stressed. It would thicken.
Annie’s hair pricked on the back of her neck. Little pings of intuition zipped through her body. What did this woman have to hide?
Annie walked around her and motioned for Jon to do the same. She turned around one more time and noticed the woman watching them walk away, her hound dog cheeks stiff with outrage.
Chapter 62
Later, after roughly ten hours of observation, Sheila and her husband were escorted to the safe house, where their children were also harbored.
“This is the safe house?” Sheila exclaimed, when they pulled up to the house at the end of a cul-de-sac. “This is where Cookie Crandall lived!”
A Crafty Christmas Page 21
