Lunatic was right, thought Sheila. If only she had known that Theresa Graves was so disturbed. Well, how would she? The police told Sheila that Theresa had been freshly divorced and when she met a “man” a few weeks before the cruise who was everything she wanted, she fell head over heels. He treated her like a princess and didn’t even pressure her to have sex. But her new boyfriend, “Sam” Milhouse, had secrets. He wanted vengeance and would have it by finally killing Sheila Rogers. Theresa had been questioned by the FBI and then figured it out. Sam had used her to gain access to Sheila’s scrapbook. Theresa was the last judge to see it.
All of the clues the FBI had gathered pointed to Theresa—thanks to her involvement with Sharon Milhouse. Theresa herself was beginning to figure it out when “Sam” suggested they leave the cruise and go to Cumberland Creek to a little bed and breakfast, take some time and get themselves together. When Theresa finally did figure it out, after another visit from the FBI, she turned what was originally planned as a surprise attack on Sheila in her basement into Sharon’s vengeful murder. She had tied “Sam” to the chair in the basement and force-fed her the ricin. Sharon Milhouse’s cruel disguise as a man had sent the already troubled Theresa over the edge.
“I know it’s strange, but I feel kind of sorry for Theresa,” Vera said. “She was hoodwinked.”
“Yes, she was,” Sheila said. “Can you imagine dating someone all that time and finding out that he was really a she?”
“Let alone that she was a cold-blooded killer using her for access,” Eric spoke up.
“I’ll never understand why Sharon hated you,” Steve said to Sheila.
Neither could Sheila, but at this point she didn’t care.
“You can’t understand something like that,” Beatrice said. “She was ill.”
“Funny how the damaged folks find each other. I mean, for Theresa to kill Sharon and leave her in your basement . . .” Vera said, shrugging.
“I don’t feel sorry for Theresa at all,” said Beatrice. “She’s exactly where she belongs, in prison.”
“On another note, that turkey was some of the best I’ve ever had,” Annie said.
“Thanks,” Sheila said. “It was hard to get used to the smaller oven in Cookie’s kitchen, but I managed.”
In fact, as Sheila looked around the table, where all of the adults were gathered over glorious food, she felt that she had managed very well indeed. The kids were all at the kitchen table and the college kids were in the living room. They were all managing Christmas.
It was unlike any she’d ever had. She felt a shift in her mood.
“I don’t know why I thought it was so important to celebrate Christmas in my own house, with my own decorations and tree,” Sheila said. The room quieted. “I think your generosity . . .” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”
Steve’s face was bright red with emotion. His arm circled around her shoulders.
The small house on the cul-de-sac was brimming with light, food, and emotion. Sheila bit into the mashed potatoes and said a little silent prayer of gratitude. In fact, she was filled with it, especially as she looked at Jon with his arm in a sling, and Annie, who had been more quiet than usual. Her pretty face had always been pensive. But now it appeared haunted.
Sheila took a deep breath, pushing away the remnants of guilt she had been feeling. All of this madness had happened because of Sharon’s twisted hatred for her. Four people dead: Allie, Harold, the FBI officer, and Sharon Milhouse herself. All that Sharon really wanted was one person’s life: hers. She chilled at that thought. But all things considered, Sheila had never been happier than at this moment, surrounded by people she loved, breaking bread, swapping stories, and sharing gratitude.
“Tell us about the job,” Beatrice said.
“I’ll be starting at the end of January,” Sheila said.
“Yay, Mom,” came Donna’s voice from the living room. “So proud of you!”
“Let’s toast to Sheila’s new job,” Steve said.
“Here, here,” Mike said, raising his glass.
Later in the kitchen, where most of the women gathered, while the men watched a football game, DeeAnn and Paige washed the dishes while Sheila sat at the table with Vera and Elizabeth. Annie was drying the dishes.
“Why are you so quiet?” Vera asked Annie.
Annie shrugged. “Not much to say, I suppose.”
“You know, I’m sure being tied up like that was terrifying,” DeeAnn said. “It’s going to take some time.”
Annie held up her wrists, pulled back her sleeves, and showed them the red circles of deep rope burn.
“Shouldn’t you have a bandage on those?” Vera asked.
“I bandage them at night,” Annie said. “I leave them on as long as I can take it, but they bother me.”
“How are Mike and the boys dealing?” DeeAnn said.
“Mike’s not happy with me,” she said, reaching for another dish to dry.
“Same old thing?” Vera said. “He doesn’t want you putting yourself at risk?”
Annie nodded. “That, and he walked into the B and B when Adam was holding me.”
The room quieted.
“Oh, surely he understands what a mess you were. You just needed comfort,” Vera said finally.
“I hope that’s the resolution he comes to,” Annie said, handing Vera a towel. “Right now, I don’t think he’s so certain.”
Later, after everybody had left, Shelia sat quietly at the small kitchen table and reflected on the evening spent with her friends and family. And she thought about her mother and father and aunts and uncles and the holidays they had spent together when she was a girl. A tear sprang to her eye. This Christmas had been the most like those Christmases past. How had she lost those holidays of her youth? How had she become so focused on the outer trappings of it? It didn’t matter one iota that she be able to gaze on her own tree with her own ornaments—what mattered was the people around her.
“You okay?” Steve asked, walking into the kitchen.
“I’m fine—better than fine, actually,” Sheila said.
He sat down with her at the table. “You know, I’ve been thinking about Sharon all those years ago and wondering that if I’d handled things differently . . . if she would have . . . I don’t know, been okay.”
“We were all so young,” Sheila said. “And remember that she had already been hospitalized before she’d gotten to college.”
“I come back to that every time I think on it. There wasn’t much I could do. I was in love with another woman. And I still am.”
Sheila grinned. “You better be.”
He reached out and rubbed his thumb along the ridge of her hand. “I guess there’s no point in dredging up the past. But I’m sorry that she blamed you all these years. Blamed you enough to want to kill you.”
“We don’t need to worry about her anymore,” Sheila said. “Let’s hope she finally found some peace.”
“What about you, Sheila? Have you found peace about this?”
She inhaled, then exhaled, and thought it over. “Not yet. I still need answers.”
Chapter 66
Sheila had been to the police station and jail before, but never to visit an inmate. They were keeping Theresa in Cumberland Creek until her trial. No bail had been posted, but mostly for her own safety. Theresa was on suicide watch.
Sheila shivered as she took her place behind the glass. How did Annie do this kind of thing? Look at criminals through glass, stare them in the eye, ask them questions? Well, if Annie could do it, so could she.
She steadied herself and folded her trembling hands, placing them in her lap. She had had to beg and plead to see Theresa, and of course they would be watched every minute. There were guards posted in both rooms and a camera in each corner.
She just needed to know.
But as the guard escorted Theresa in, Sheila felt deflated. Theresa seemed different: hair unbrushed,
hunched posture, and no makeup, of course.
“Hello, Theresa,” Sheila finally said.
Theresa nodded, opened her mouth as if to speak, but didn’t.
Silence ensued as the two women sized one another up.
“How are you?” Sheila finally said.
“I’m back on my meds,” Theresa replied, after a moment. “Believe it or not, I’m glad to see you. I just . . . wanted to say . . .” Sheila sat forward. “My life sucks. I have four kids who’d rather live with their cheating bastard of a father than me. When I met Sam, um, I mean Sharon, it seemed he really understood.”
“What happened?” Sheila asked. “Why did you kill her?”
Theresa shrugged. “I’m not a killer.” She breathed deeply, as if she were willing away tears. “She switched my medicine. I thought I was losing my mind. It turns out that I was.”
“She switched your medicine?”
“We met in a support group for schizophrenia. Mine has been very controllable with meds. But she swapped out my regular medicine. I was taking empty pills.”
Sheila was flabbergasted by Sharon’s deviousness. “But I started to figure things out, even in my muddled state.” It seemed as if each word was an effort for Theresa. She looked drained, as if someone could breathe on her and she’d fall right over.
“Please go on,” Sheila said.
“I felt so stupid . . . when I realized . . . it was you, not me she was obsessed with. And when I was questioned by the FBI about the scrapbook, I realized what she had done. Sam . . . I mean Sharon, had used me to get to you.” She managed a weak smile. “To get to your scrapbook to poison it.”
“But why?”
“We develop obsessions,” Theresa said, looking over at the guard, who watched them intently. “Steve broke her heart all those years ago and she thought it was your fault.”
“Most people would get over it,” Sheila said.
“You don’t understand Sam. I mean Sharon,” she said, and sniffed. “Extremely delusional.”
“Yet she was smart enough to manage all of this,” she said.
“Ha,” Theresa said. “I keep asking myself—was she so smart or was I just stupid, seeing what I wanted to see?”
Sheila’s heart sank. Was Theresa as much a victim as she was a killer? Annie often said that she felt many people would kill, given the right circumstances. Sheila didn’t think she had a killer inside her—but if someone were to hurt her kids or come after them, she didn’t know what she’d do.
“I look back and wonder how I didn’t see that Sam was a woman, that the reason he wasn’t interested in pursuing a physical relationship with me was because . . . well,” she said. and shrugged.
“She’d taken a trip to Virginia the same time that the ship had first set sail. She met the ship the next day, at the second port, and met me onboard.
“I was standing in your basement when I put it all together. I realized she’d been to your house before. She was stalking you. I figured it out when I noticed that she knew her way around your basement. Then something happened. Something switched in me. I don’t know. I reached over and tried to take the ricin from her and we fought. Her shirt came off and I saw the straps around her chest. . . .” She took a deep breath. “I was trying to save you and your family, even before I knew he was a woman. But in that moment something snapped. I held her down—God, I don’t know where I got the strength, something just came over me—and I force-fed her the poison.”
Her eyes were ablaze now.
Sheila sat back as fear ripped through her. She and her family had come so close to being poisoned. Sharon had been to Cumberland Creek, knew her home, and probably had left the postcard in her box when she was visited right before she boarded the cruise, later than the other passengers.
The guard moved toward Theresa.
“I’m so sorry,” Theresa said as she hunched over more, wilting as the guard moved toward her. “I wish . . .”
Theresa didn’t finish her sentence. But it wasn’t necessary. Sheila knew what was in her heart.
Chapter 67
Beatrice untangled herself from her blankets and quilts. Damn, something smelled good. Someone was making breakfast and she hoped it wasn’t Jon, who was told not to use his right arm. He needed to take it easy. It was a miracle that a man in his seventies had survived that kind of trauma.
She bounded down the steps—well, as much as her bones could bound at eight-thirty in the morning—ready to give him a piece of her mind. But she was surprised to find Eric and Vera cooking.
Jon, who was sitting at the table, smiled up at her. “Good morning,” he said.
“Hungry, Mom?” Vera said, holding up a plate of gingerbread pancakes. “This is one of Eric’s mother’s recipes. I thought we could try it.”
Beatrice nodded as Elizabeth danced into the room. “Morning, Granny. Pancakes!”
“Good morning, sugar. They sure smell heavenly,” Beatrice said, and smacked her lips together.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and saw the snow falling against the window. “Land sakes, look at the snow! There must be about six inches.”
“And it’s still coming down,” Eric said, flipping a pancake.
“We were just talking about the past few weeks,” Jon said, as Elizabeth skipped out of the room to watch TV. “Trying to make sense of it.”
“Senseless,” Beatrice said.
“I’m afraid Sheila is still feeling guilty,” Vera said, setting down a plate of stacked pancakes. The table was already set, in a scattered way. Beatrice detected Lizzie’s help.
“She probably will for a while,” Beatrice surmised. “But none of it was her fault, of course.”
“I hope she can stay focused on all the good things coming her way,” Vera said, and sat down.
“Why did they let Sharon out in the first place?” Jon said. “I do not understand.”
“They thought Sharon was okay. She’d served her term. And she might have been okay if she hadn’t stopped taking her medicine after she left the Institute,” Beatrice said.
Jon clicked his tongue and shook his head. “But what about the woman who shot me? Why was she free when she was so ill?”
Beatrice placed the pancakes on her plate and reached for the butter. Jon was doing the same.” She was ill too, and she and Sharon, dressed up as Sam, had met in a support group of some kind.”
“Sharon really researched the scrapbooking community,” Eric said, dropping a few fresh pancakes onto the stack. “It’s a lot of effort to go to in order to kill someone. Such an orchestration.”
“Yes, and a twisted one at that,” Jon said.
“Lizzie, come eat,” Vera called as Eric sat down at the table.
“You know, it was a wonderful Christmas dinner last night,” Beatrice said. As usual, by her third or fourth drink of coffee, things were perking up.
“I agree,” Eric said. “It was great to see the way everybody pulled together to give the Rogerses a decent Christmas since they couldn’t get into their home.”
“What’s with them calling Cookie’s house a safe house?” Vera said. “I thought that was a technical term for a place the cops always use to hide someone.”
“I don’t know,” Beatrice said. “Maybe they’re not using it in quite the same way. Maybe they are using ‘safe’ as a way of saying ‘no ricin.’”
“Could be,” Eric said. “Or it could be the property of the police since Cookie escaped from jail. I’m sure they seized it.”
Beatrice’s and Vera’s eyes met, then lowered, each to her own plate. They didn’t like to talk about Cookie. Beatrice herself was fond of the young woman, but talking about her made it all seem too real. They would each come to terms with her disappearance in their own way.
“How does someone escape from jail these days? I thought it was supposed to be impossible,” Jon asked.
“Well,” Beatrice said. “Aren’t you just full of questions this morning?”
Jon
smiled. “Of course.”
“The truth is,” Vera said, “nobody knows how Cookie escaped. The security tapes from that day were a mess.”
“I hear they’ve beefed up security since then,” Beatrice said.
“They certainly botched the rescue attempt at the B and B,” Eric said.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Vera said, cutting into her stack of pancakes. “They had no idea there was a hostage situation inside, from my understanding. They were just there to question Theresa Graves. The FBI had pretty much fingered her as Sharon Milhouse’s killer.”
“In the meantime, Sharon had killed three people with her poison, while she was disguised as a man,” Beatrice said.
“I’m not sure why she bothered dressing as a man,” Vera said. “She used her name on the cruise registry.”
“She had to—that’s the name on her credit card,” Eric said.
“It was just a disguise, and you know it was one that not everybody could pull off. But she was very masculine-looking, even without the disguise,” Beatrice said. “A cruel one. Sharon fashioned herself into a perfect man for the sake of luring Theresa in and it worked. Theresa was so desperate. Sad.”
“And in the end her desperation led to killing,” Vera said.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” Jon muttered.
“Quoting Thoreau now?” Beatrice said, eyebrows lifted.
“Why not?” he said, and shrugged.
Beatrice sat back and reveled in the people in her kitchen and the warm, spicy gingerbread pancake flavor that lingered on. She caught a glance exchanged between Eric and Vera. Was it love? Elizabeth was humming “Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer” and eating the gingerbread pancakes in front of her.
Beatrice reached out and touched Jon’s hand. “Merry Christmas, Jon.”
Epilogue
“Really, Mike? When do you think I’d have time to have an affair with Adam Bryant?” Annie shot at him as she got ready to leave for the Saturday crop.
“I’m not saying you’re having an affair. I’m just saying that it was a very tender moment between you and I felt like an outsider in your life,” Mike said.
A Crafty Christmas Page 23
