Beatrice sat in her chair reading the newest Louise Penny mystery and Jon sat in front of the computer reading intently.
“What are you doing over there?” Bea asked.
“Reading about gangs in small towns. It’s troubling. I don’t think we have gangs like this in France.” He looked at her with a sideways glance and a grin.
“The hell you don’t,” Beatrice said. “Maybe you should be reading about gangs in Paris or Mexico City.”
“Mexico City?”
“That’s in Mexico.”
“Yes, of course it is, but we are in Cumberland Creek.”
“Yes, but the murder victims were from Mexico, right? So maybe we can learn something about where they lived. Maybe it will give us a better understanding of why the women were here,” Beatrice said.
“They were probably here because wherever they grew up was terrible. They were very poor and lived in terrible conditions. They thought America was, how do you say, the land of opportunity,” Jon said.
Beatrice’s stomach sank. What Jon said was probably true and that was what made it all the more tragic. What could she do? She felt obligated to do something. She couldn’t not help out. It was the Southerner in her. It was frustrating because there was nobody to take a casserole to, nobody to offer a shoulder to. What must the girls’ parents feel like?
“Jon, we need to find out where to send our condolences. Maybe we can help their family somehow.”
Jon’s face softened. “What a lovely thought. You, my love, have a big heart.”
Beatrice grinned. “Let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
He went back to the computer and she to her book.
That didn’t last long. Bea looked up. “I don’t know much about Mexico at all. Here I am, eighty-five years old and there’s so many places in the world that I know nothing about. Ed, my first husband, and I traveled around the states a bit. And there was my big trip to Paris. But life gets so busy. It all goes by too quickly to visit every place you might like to.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Jon said.
“Well, hand me the phone.”
After Jon passed it over Bea dialed Vera’s cell.
“Yes, Mama?” Vera said.
“I want to send condolences to the murder victims’ family. Anybody have any address?”
“Well, how would I know?”
“Ask Annie, would you? I know she’s there,” Beatrice said.
“Hold on,” said Vera.
A few seconds later, Annie’s voice came over the phone. “Hey Bea, how are you?”
“Feeling bad about those girls who were killed. I want to send their folks something. Can you help me out?” Beatrice asked.
“I can try. Right now, there’s not much to tell. As soon as I find out who to contact, I’ll let you know,” Annie said.
“Why is it such a big deal? Why doesn’t someone have their mother’s address?” Beatrice said, exasperated.
“Pamela might,” Annie said after a minute. “But it’s complicated. Privacy issues. Immigration issues.”
“Are you saying they were here illegally?”
“No. Pamela said they were legal. But Marina was her employee and there are legal guidelines for that. I plan to talk to Pamela this week. Maybe we can get somewhere. I’d like to reach out to their family, too, even if it’s just to send a card, you know?” Annie said.
“Land’s sakes. Guidelines,” Beatrice said. “Guidelines for everything. Why do they have to make things so complicated?”
“I can’t answer that, Beatrice,” Annie said and laughed.
“Well, please let me know when you know something. Now, go ahead and get back to your scrapbooking. Sorry to interrupt.”
“You are never an interruption, Bea. Good night.”
Jon was deep into reading something on the computer. When Bea got off the phone he piped up. “Fascinating report on gangs in rural America. They are trying to figure out how gangs start. But no matter how it starts, it’s clear that young people are targeted. One key factor is many of the gangs in rural areas are close to a major highway.”
“I’ve always hated Highway 81. They say there’s a lot of drugs transported there.” Beatrice yawned. She wasn’t sure what she wanted more—sleep or that last piece of apple strudel.
Of course, the strudel won out.
Chapter 18
DeeAnn mulled over the whole Pamela hiring only foreigners thing. What was that about? “Randy, how does Pamela find her help?”
“Who? What?” Randy was obviously concentrating on his father-son scrapbooking project.
“Pamela!” DeeAnn said. “How does she find her foreign help? I mean, I wouldn’t even know where to begin, say, if I wanted to specifically hire immigrants.”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry, DeeAnn. The hiring is done by Pamela. I have no idea how she finds them.”
“Maybe she runs want ads in their Mexican papers,” Vera suggested.
“Online, more likely,” Annie said.
“It’s not only people from Mexico. Sal is from Brazil and some of the others are from the Philippines,” Randy said.
It was perplexing. DeeAnn couldn’t get over it. She didn’t know about any of it, of course, and it troubled her. Even though Pamela’s Pie Palace was on the outskirts of town, she was in the same business and wondered if she was missing an opportunity. But what was the advantage? Her employees were the best. She paid them a fair wage and they worked hard for her. She sucked in air as a twinge of pain ripped through her lower back.
Sheila noticed. “DeeAnn? Is this too much for you?”
“Nah, I probably need another couple pain pills.” DeeAnn reached for her bottle as she looked at the clock. When was the last time I took a pill? Oh never mind.
It hurt, so she took a couple more.
Annie’s head tilted as she looked up from her scrapbook. “Where do all these immigrants live? I mean, I never see them wandering around Cumberland Creek.”
“I have no idea, Annie,” Randy said. “We know where the Martelino sisters lived. Maybe the rest of them live there, too.”
“But even then, where are they hanging out? Doing their grocery shopping? I never see them,” she insisted.
“That is odd. I figured since I moved onto the mountain, I’m a bit out of touch with things. That’s why I don’t see them. There are several girls in dance class, though,” Vera said and placed a button onto her page. It was a button that looked like a medal. She was working on Eric’s triathlon page.
“I think they keep to themselves,” Randy said after a minute. “I mean, imagine being in a foreign country surrounded by people you don’t know. It’s natural to want to hang out with other people from your own country. Right?”
DeeAnn searched through her brain to remember if she’d ever seen any of the new people in the bakery. She couldn’t remember. She closed the lid on her laptop to rest her eyes, which were burning.
“You okay?” Vera said.
“Yes, stop fussing over me. It’s just that my eyes are burning from using the computer,” DeeAnn said.
“Yes, that will happen. That and pain in your hands and such. It’s a good idea to stop, rest your eyes, and stretch,” Sheila said.
“Sheila, how is Donna?” Annie asked after taking a sip of beer.
“She’s doing okay,” Sheila said after a minute.
DeeAnn took a good look at Sheila. “But you look like hell.”
“DeeAnn!” Paige said. “Those drugs are messing with your head!”
Sheila’s mouth dropped open, then closed.
Vera reached over and took her hand. “She’s right. You look very tired. Are you okay?”
DeeAnn watched as Sheila’s lips started to curl downward. Her cheeks twitched and a low sob came from deep inside of her. “No! I’m not okay. I have deadlines, big deadlines, a very sick daughter who wants to go back to Carnegie Mellon, another child getting ready to go to school, and I have no energy. I s
imply don’t know how to manage anymore.” She snapped her laptop shut.
The room went completely silent.
Cookie spoke up first. She had been quiet for most of the night, which was her usual way these days. She’d come and eat and work on a page or two. Nobody knew what memories she was scrapbooking, since she really didn’t remember much of her past.
“Sheila, maybe you need to pull back, give something up,” Cookie said.
Sheila made a noise, something between a laugh and a sob. “But what? I have this dream job . . .”
“Sometimes what we think is a dream turns out to be a nightmare,” Cookie said.
DeeAnn bit her tongue. How would she know? Half the time Cookie didn’t remember a thing. How could she be dispensing advice?
Sheila took a deep breath. “You know, Cookie, for somebody who is still not quite well . . . I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. I love my work. But the deadlines, the travel . . . If Donna were okay, I think it would be different. But maybe I need to talk to my company about pulling back a bit. My first product line comes out next week. It’s going to be crazy busy.”
“Is this your scrap journaling project?” Annie asked.
“That’s part of it. There’s a Halloween digital scrap journal and a line of papers and embellishments and so on. All designed by me.” Despite her stress, Sheila beamed with pride.
“That’s fantastic,” DeeAnn said.
“The company is having this huge event to roll it out next week. My whole family is going with me to the city to celebrate.”
“Oh Sheila, that’s wonderful!” Vera said.
Sheila nodded. “A dream come true. If only I felt better.”
Chapter 19
“Hey, Pamela,” Annie said as she walked in the door of Pamela’s Pie Palace.
“Hey Annie,” Pamela called out from behind the counter.
The place was packed. She was having a grand reopening celebration since the place had been closed for several days. Annie was often impressed by Pamela’s business acumen.
“Let’s go into my office,” Pamela said, leading her through a door that led to some stairs. Annie followed her up the stairs to what looked like more of an apartment than an office.
“Sorry about the mess,” Pamela said, walking over to the futon and plopping down on it. A poster of Marilyn Monroe hung on the wall behind the futon. “Lord, that’s quite a crowd down there! Take a seat. What can I do for you?”
DeeAnn always went on about how beautiful Pamela was. And it was true, Annie mused. But she was uncertain how pretty Pamela would be without her makeup. Likely Annie would never find out; she looked as though she’d stepped out of a poster herself.
“I’m here to ask a few questions about Marina,” Annie said.
Pamela’s mouth curled. “I figured.”
“She’d been here two years?”
“Just about, well, closer to eighteen months, actually.”
“I’m curious as to how you found her. How you find the other internationals that work for you,” Annie said, trying to be as careful with her words as possible.
“I used to work with an agency,” Pamela said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “But then word got around. I have families working here, cousins, nephews. They come over and send for others. I haven’t had to use the agency in a while. For the most part, I never have problems. Most of them are very good workers.”
“So you don’t work with the agency at all anymore?”
“Not too much. Every once in awhile they contact me,” she said.
“Is that how you found Marina?”
Pamela tilted her head. “Actually, the agency came to me. Marina was known in Mexico City as a good baker. She had run into trouble of some kind . . . and she needed to get out.”
Zaps of intuition and curiosity were zooming through Annie. “What kind of trouble?”
Pamela made a gesture that Annie had seen Vera make a thousand times. She called it the “Delta Burke-Suzanne Sugarbaker” dismissive wave. “I never ask about such things. I find it’s better if I don’t know about my employees’ personal lives. I don’t want to get too involved. They move on from here pretty quickly most of the time. Marina was different. I was surprised she stayed as long as she did.”
“Why do they move on so quickly?”
Pamela sank back into a pillow. “They find better work, I suppose. It’s typical in the restaurant business. I have some servers and bakers that have been with me for years. But for the most part, workers are here less than a year and move on.”
A wafting of some delicious pie baking downstairs filled the room. Cinnamon and apple? Mince?
“But Marina had been here eighteen months. Did you think she’d stay longer?” Annie said, reminding herself that her visit was not about pie.
“I thought she was a talented baker. She was on a different pay scale, than say, a dishwasher. I was hoping she’d stay.” An emotion played over Pamela’s face. Sullen. Sad. “I don’t understand why someone wanted to kill her. She was so sweet.”
“And her sister . . .” Annie said. “You mentioned that there was trouble in Mexico. Any way you can find out what that was?”
“I can make some inquiries, I suppose. But why? You don’t think their trouble followed them here, do you?”
Annie shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. Two sisters killed within twenty-four hours of one another. And they both lived over on Druid Lane in apartments that I didn’t even know existed. Come to find out those places are gang infested.”
“Gang?”
“According to the cops,” Annie said.
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Pamela said, her eyes widening.
“What makes you so certain?”
“First, we’re talking about Cumberland Creek, right? Second, Marina would never be involved in such shenanigans, third—”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Pamela yelled.
“Sorry to interrupt.” It was Randy. “I need your signature on a few things.” He handed her a pen and a clipboard. She read it over.
“Hey Annie,” he said, while Pamela was signing. “How are you?”
“Good. Yourself?”
“Fine,” he said.
Pamela handed him back the clipboard.
Annie glanced at her watch. Pamela had pushed back their meeting several times, which meant it was close to the time her boys would be getting home from school. She’d have to wrap this up and try to get another meeting scheduled. She explained to Pamela that she’d have to go. “I’m sorry. I hope we can meet again soon.”
“Hey, just call or e-mail me. It might be quicker,” Pamela said, leading Annie out of the room to the stairs.
When Annie walked into the dining room, she was surprised to see Vera, Sheila, Beatrice, and Jon sitting in a booth. She walked over to them after saying good-bye to Pamela. “Well, hello there. What are you all doing here?”
“Pie,” Beatrice said. “We’re here for pie. Care to join us?”
“It’s the grand reopening,” Vera said. “She’s got some great specials today.”
“I’ve got to go. The boys will be home soon. Sorry,” Annie said.
“What are you doing here?” Vera asked.
“I was chatting with Pamela about Marina,” Annie replied in a quieter voice.
“Find out anything interesting?” Beatrice asked.
“Maybe. I’m not sure what to think,” Annie said.
“Did you get an address for me?” Beatrice asked, looking hopeful.
“Shoot, no. I forgot,” Annie said.
“I’ll ask Pamela myself,” Beatrice said. “No worries.”
“If you want to get anything done, you’ve got to do it yourself” Annie heard Beatrice mutter as she walked away.
Chapter 20
Beatrice savored the last bite of her chocolate custard pie. Heaven on earth. Creamy. Rich. Just the right texture. “Sin on a Plate”
Pamela called it. She had come up with cute names for all her pies.
She had that one right.
Vera took a sip of her coffee and placed the cup back in the saucer. “Delicious. Even her coffee is the best.”
“How was your Key-Lime Kiss pie?” Beatrice asked.
“Extraordinary,” Vera replied.
Beatrice sat back and watched the crowded scene before her. A small group of people were waiting at the cash register to pay their bills. Servers skirted in and out between people and aisles of tables. Not one of the servers appeared to be foreign. Hadn’t Randy said they were mostly foreigners? Wait. He must have been talking about the kitchen staff.
Pamela was chitchatting with folks at a table in the corner. She moved from table to table asking how her customers were enjoying their pie. Good business move. She was more like a hostess than an owner who sat on high ordering people around. It made you feel good for paying $3.50 for a slice of pie. But not today—it was half-off today, it being a special grand-reopening.
Sheila was quieter than usual. She seemed tired. But it was more than that really; she seemed worn down. Like the reality of life was suddenly too much for her. She did have a lot on her plate.
“How was your pie?” Beatrice asked her.
“The Cherry Divine was divine,” Sheila said and smiled. “Love that chocolate layer between the cherries and the crust. Genius.”
“I agree that this place has extraordinary pie,” Jon said.
“Good to hear that,” Pamela said as she approached their table. “Coming from a Frenchman, that’s a big compliment.”
“Everything was very good, of course,” Vera said.
“Can I ask you a question?” Beatrice began. “I’d like to send my condolences to Marina’s family.”
The smile vanished from Pamela’s face.
“Would you happen to know how I can reach them?” Beatrice continued.
Pamela pasted on a fake smile.
It was as if I’d asked her to kill someone for me. I only want Marina’s family’s address, thought Beatrice.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Matthews. I don’t have that kind of information. She came through an agency.”
Scrapbook of the Dead Page 7
