Chapter 32
Beatrice walked up the sidewalk to the Drummond house. Halloween was in a few weeks and it occurred to her that the place looked like something straight out of a clichéd horror movie. The sidewalk was cracked and lopsided. The house needed a good painting and the porch was sagging.
If Emma was dead, she’d be turning over in her grave—but instead she was at an assisted living place, afraid to leave her room and thinking that she’d killed her husband. A shiver traveled up Bea’s spine. Emma must be mistaken. Nobody is living here.
But when she stepped up onto the porch, she glimpsed a movement in the window. And there were curtains! Bea rang the doorbell.
A short, dark-haired woman opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m a good friend of Emma Drummond—”
“She doesn’t live here anymore,” the woman interrupted curtly and started to close the door.
Beatrice’s arm prevented it. “I know that. I’d like to see her daughter, Michelle. She lives here, right?”
“Yes, come in.” The woman sighed and reluctantly opened the door.
When Bea walked through the door, she was taken straight back to the last day she had been in the house. The day she’d witnessed Emma being smacked across the face by her husband. Beatrice had intervened, not thinking, and the man almost struck her as well.
The woodwork was polished and shining. The carpets and curtains were beautiful, clean, and well-appointed. What’s the deal with the outside? thought Bea.
The woman gestured to the couch. “Please have a seat.”
Well, Michelle must not be that bad off if she has a housekeeper. Just what’s going on here?
“Hello.” A small, childlike voice came from around the corner. Beatrice twisted around to see. The approaching woman was a wisp of a thing. A little younger than Vera, maybe, and pretty as she could be.
“Michelle? I’m Beatrice, a friend of your mom’s,” Bea said, standing and offering her a hand. The last time she had seen Michelle she had still been in diapers. Beatrice was certain she wouldn’t remember her.
Michelle took her hand and shook it, only meeting Bea’s eyes once.
“I was just visiting Emma,” Bea said. “And she mentioned that you lived here.”
Michelle sat down. “Irina,” she called. “Can we get you some iced tea? Water?”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Beatrice said.
“Yes, for the time being, I live here,” Michelle said, returning to Bea’s earlier question. “I love this old place. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
“I used to visit here back when Emma and Paul lived here. It is lovely. The other day I was walking over by the park and saw the place, which prompted me to look up your mom.”
Michelle simply said, “Ah.” She wore no makeup. She had pretty, big brown eyes, framed in long, dark lashes, a button nose, and an unfortunate, pointy chin. “How is she?” asked Michelle.
“Fine. She doesn’t leave her room?” Beatrice asked. She liked that Michelle wasn’t all made up.
“No,” Michelle said, meeting Beatrice’s eyes with her own. “Unfortunately, it runs in the family.”
“You don’t leave the house?”
She shook her head. “Oh I have, but not recently. That’s why I have Irina. She gets me what I need. Between her and the Internet, I have no need to go out, really.”
So that’s why the place had gone to pot outside. Michelle never saw it.
What to say to something like that? Beatrice knew there were shut-ins everywhere. But this young woman appeared healthy. It must be a form of agoraphobia.
“When I was walking the other day and saw the place it made me kind of sad. I didn’t know anybody lived here. From the outside . . . well, I thought it was abandoned,” Beatrice said carefully. That was as polite as she could put it. She was pleased with herself.
“It’s intentional,” Michelle said, jutting that pointy chin of hers out farther. “I want people to stay away, especially the Kraft Corporation.”
“What? Why?”
“We had to sell part of our land to help keep Mom in the nursing home. So we sold it to them. Then they built those stinking apartments, brought in bad sorts of people. I figure if folks think the place is abandoned, they won’t be robbing me or bother with me at all.”
“What makes you think they’d rob you?” Beatrice asked, thinking that Michelle sounded a bit paranoid.
“I’ve had a few incidents already. And the Kraft Corporation wants the whole shebang. I’ll never leave here!” Michelle was getting hoarse. Her voice was draining.
“Ms. Drummond.” Irina suddenly appeared. “Shall I get you some of your medicine?”
Michelle nodded. She sat very straight in her chair. Her body belied the look on her face, which was borderline panic.
“I’m sorry. I get a bit upset sometimes. They really have upset me. The men that come here and try to get me to sell this place. It’s the last link I have to my family. I’m the last one. Well, aside from my mother and my cousin. And they want to take it all from me,” she said.
Irina appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere, and handed Michelle a glass of water and a pill.
That was the thing about hired help, they were always around. It was something Beatrice could never have abided. “What men?” she asked.
“The Kraft Corporation. The ones who built the apartments.”
Beatrice sank back into the cushions on the couch.
“They want this place and the rest of the land. They can have it over my dead body,” Michelle said.
“Good for you,” Beatrice said. Kraft, she thought.
That was Pamela’s last name. Was the Kraft Corporation hers? Or was it a relative? Kraft was a popular name in these parts. It could have no bearing at all. But it might be a little too coincidental—the women who were killed had links to the Pie Palace and also lived in apartments possibly owned by a member of Pamela’s family. Just what was going on?
Chapter 33
DeeAnn and Sheila sat at her kitchen table with DeeAnn’s laptop in front of them.
“So, after you place the photo on the page, you can change the color or texture or anything,” Sheila said.
“But that’s not really a page,” DeeAnn said.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Sheila said, exasperated.
“It’s pretty cool,” DeeAnn said. “But after I finish all this, then what do I do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how do I get the pages off my computer and into my hands? Can I print them?”
“Well, sure. Depending on your page size. If you have a regular scrapbook page, there are places that you can send your pages to and they will print them. Or you can keep them on CDs, jump drives, whatever.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Some people don’t feel the need for paper and clutter. They lead digital lives.” Sheila grinned.
“Sounds fancy,” DeeAnn said, sliding her computer over and her sandwich toward her. Sheila had brought lunch. She made the most wonderful sandwiches—this one was avocado and cream cheese with lettuce and tomatoes. DeeAnn would never have imagined putting all of those ingredients together. But it was good.
“When are you going back to work?” Sheila asked.
DeeAnn shrugged. “I guess when the doc tells me I can.”
“How are you feeling?”
“As long as I have the pain medicine, I’m fine. But when it starts to wear off, I’m not happy. And Jacob won’t let me have more. I say if it hurts I need one. He says only two a day. Prick.” She laughed.
“Guess the bastard likes you or something,” Sheila said and then took a bite of her sandwich.
The two sat quietly for a few minutes as they each ate their sandwiches.
“I’ve been thinking about those paper dolls of yours,” DeeAnn said. “I love them. Have you shown them to your boss yet?”
Sheila shook her head. “I
’ll be seeing him next week. I don’t have much hope that they’ll be interested in carrying a line of paper dolls, though. I don’t think they are a popular toy these days.”
“That makes me sad,” DeeAnn said and then paused. “How is Donna?”
The color in Sheila’s faced drained. DeeAnn was sorry she asked.
“I don’t think she’s going back to school anytime soon. They said they’d hold her scholarship for two years. She seems to be fine for days, and then . . .” Sheila gestured. “I don’t know. She weakens. I don’t like leaving her. In fact, I think I might quit my job.”
“What?” DeeAnn dropped her sandwich. “Your dream job?”
“It is a dream job in a way. But it’s not exactly how I thought it would be—and it came at such a bad time for the family. I feel . . . pulled so much of the time. I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
DeeAnn was surprised to hear it. She thought Sheila was so thrilled with her work. “Hey, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Things happen. Priorities shift.”
Sheila smiled. “Isn’t that the truth?”
The telephone blared. It was a woman from Hathaway Transatlantic Employment. “Just confirming tomorrow’s appointment,” she said.
“I’ll be here,” DeeAnn said. And she wasn’t the only one. Annie would be there and so would Beatrice. Sheila couldn’t make it, as she was going to New York City.
DeeAnn finished the call, hung up the phone, and explained who had called.
“I wish I could be there,” Sheila said. “It should be interesting.”
“I’ll say,” DeeAnn said. “There’s definitely something fishy about these folks.”
“Maybe not.” Sheila pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “Maybe they are exactly what they say they are. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I wish I could believe that. I don’t understand why Pamela uses them when there are locals who need the work. Maybe it’s because she can get away with paying them less than minimum wage.”
“She does?”
“Good Lord, the woman has more money than God,” DeeAnn said.
“Maybe that’s why—she’s very frugal with it.”
“Baloney! She was born into money and married into it. She’s a selfish bitch.” DeeAnn couldn’t believe she actually said that. But she did—and it felt good to acknowledge that it was exactly how she felt. It wasn’t sour grapes because the Pie Palace was so successful. It was as if that feeling about Pamela had been swirling around inside her for a long time and she just now recognized it.
Sheila lurched back, her hand to her chest.
“I mean it, Sheila, no pussyfooting around about it. When you own a business, you need to treat the people who work for you as good as you can,” DeeAnn said.
“True. Speaking of that, I brought dessert, too, from my favorite bakery.” Sheila reached down next to her feet and lifted a “DeeAnn’s Bakery” bag. Inside was a box of cupcakes.
When she lifted the lid, DeeAnn sighed. Four gorgeous cupcakes were decorated to look like witch hats.
“Chocolate raspberry,” Sheila said. “So beautiful. I don’t know how she does it.”
A lovely, handwritten card was tucked inside the box from her crew.
DeeAnn held back a tear she felt stinging her eyes, then she took a deep breath and shrugged. Well, if she couldn’t be at her shop, it was a good thing Jill was. Figuring she may as well enjoy the treats, DeeAnn reached into the box for a gorgeous cupcake and when she took a bite of it, it tasted like sweet heaven.
Chapter 34
Annie set the cereal bowls down in front of her boys. “Eat up. The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”
Mike came out of the bedroom and sauntered into the kitchen. He was dressed to the hilt in a gray suit.
“Well, good morning, handsome,” Annie said and smiled.
He reached out for her and gave her a quick kiss. “Important meeting today. I can’t wait to get this over with.”
“I’m sure you will get the promotion, Mike. You’ve done so well since we’ve been here,” Annie said.
They both had. They were able to save a little bit of money and were getting close to being able to buy another house. Their place was so small. Each year, as the boys grew, it became smaller. The incredible shrinking house.
“Stop it, Ben!” Sam slammed his hand on the table.
Ben laughed and continued to slurp his milk out of the bowl.
“Mom! Dad! Tell him to stop!”
“Ben, please stop annoying your brother.” Mike turned and reached into the cupboard for a bowl and a cup.
“I’ll get your oatmeal. Sit down, Mike,” Annie said and poured him a cup of steaming coffee.
“Sam,” Mike said. “Stop glaring at your brother like that. How did your math test go yesterday?”
“I did okay.” Sam shrugged. “I’ll find out today.”
“Good,” Mike said. “And what are you up to, Ben?”
“Soccer game this weekend. Can’t wait.”
Mike nodded. “That’s right. And next weekend is Halloween.”
“Halloween is for babies,” Sam said.
“Well,” Annie said. “You don’t have to get dressed up. You can stay here and hand out candy with your father.”
Sam smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
After everybody had left and Annie finished cleaning the kitchen, she dressed and gathered her things for the meeting at DeeAnn’s house. It should be an interesting morning. But maybe not as interesting as the evening she had planned at the Drummond house, meeting with another group of scrapbookers. Imagine that! Another group of women in town got together to scrapbook every week or so. Annie found it amusing. She couldn’t wait to meet the women and find out more about the immigrant population in Cumberland Creek—especially Marina and her sister Esmeralda.
Pamela was not being much help—she and Annie kept playing phone tag. At this point, it was pretty clear that it was a purposeful avoidance tactic on Pamela’s part, which only led Annie to suspect her of knowing more or covering something up.
But what?
Annie slipped on her sneakers. Every time she put them on, she longingly remembered the days when she used to wear great shoes. Maybe soon, she’d trade in her sneakers for her designer heels again. Truth was, she didn’t know where she was heading with her life. She simply knew she was done with reporting.
She grabbed her bag, locked the front door, and started the walk to DeeAnn’s house.
When she reached DeeAnn’s house, she saw that the man from the agency was already there. “Guess he couldn’t wait,” she muttered to herself. “But I thought I was early.”
Annie rang the doorbell and Beatrice greeted her. She looked like that cat who swallowed the canary. Knowing Beatrice, it was one bloody canary.
“Come on in,” Bea said. “He’s just gotten here.” She looked at the bag in Annie’s hand. “Those muffins? I brought some coffee cake. We sure are going to sweeten him up.”
Annie followed her into the kitchen where plates of food were being filled with cake, muffins, donuts, bagels, and other morning goodies.
DeeAnn was in the living room with the man while Bea was preening over the food. “Let’s go ahead and take these in.”
Annie grabbed a plate.
When they walked into the living room, Christopher Hathaway looked up and his eyes widened. “Now ladies, you all have gone to too much trouble. It’s not necessary.”
“We want to make you feel welcome. Everybody needs breakfast,” DeeAnn said.
The women set the plates of food on the coffee table and then proceeded to sit down.
Mr. Hathaway had coco-colored skin and dark hair, graying at the temples. He had big, bright eyes that hinted at intelligence.
“Please help yourself,” DeeAnn said.
Mr. Hathaway selected a blueberry muffin and took a huge bite. “Oh my God. This is so good.”
“They’re from my bakery,” DeeAnn said proudly.
“So—we’d like to hear more about your company.”
“Well, as you know, we provide a means for immigrants to come to this country. We help get their visas and passports and whatnot, and help to find them work.” He took another bite of the blueberry muffin and rolled his eyes in obvious delight.
Sounded good, but Annie had her doubts.
“So, the money I’d pay you would cover all that?” DeeAnn asked.
“That and more,” he said, looking around curiously.
He was probably wondering what the hell all those women were doing there.
“It would cover expenses in getting them here and their first year of employment.”
“So, they don’t get paid the first year?” Beatrice spoke up.
“I’m sorry. How are you connected with the bakery?” he asked politely.
“I’m not,” Beatrice said. “I’m a friend of DeeAnn’s.”
“But Bea’s question is a good one,” DeeAnn said quickly.
Mr. Hathaway continued, turning his attention to DeeAnn. “I know it seems harsh, but we’ve found that while they are adjusting to a new job, new country, and new culture, it’s best that the first year they receive payment only from us. You pay us up front in a lump sum and we pay them. It helps us to keep track of them.”
“Why do you need to keep track of them?” Annie said.
“Another friend?” he asked DeeAnn, who nodded.
“I’m unaccustomed to answering business questions from friends,” Mr. Hathaway said. “I don’t understand what these women are doing here.”
“They’re just curious,” DeeAnn replied. “Because of the recent murders, you see. Everybody is curious about the Martelino sisters.”
Mr. Hathaway’s face reddened. “Avery unfortunate incident. But they had been here for almost two years so I really have nothing to say about them.”
“Meaning their first year was over so you didn’t keep track of them any longer?” Annie asked after swallowing a bite of cranberry scone.
“Yes,” Mr. Hathaway said. “During the first year their sponsors check in on them several times to make sure they are adjusting and so on.”
“Sponsors?” DeeAnn asked.
Scrapbook of the Dead Page 12
