“Bryant?” Annie said as a pang of anger shot through her. When they’d talked, he had treated that bit of information as inconsequential. Bastard.
Pamela nodded. “He just left here. I explained to him that the people who were there were employees, spouses, children, and a few close friends. But I do keep a list because they were only allowed to bring one guest each.” She paused. “I also have a holiday party each year. I used to have a Halloween party, but it just got to be too much. I like doing these parties. They’re great for morale.”
“Would you happen to have a copy of your list that you can give me?” Annie asked. She was still seething but maintaining her composure.
“Certainly,” Pamela said. “I just need to print it off.” She turned around, pulled up her computer screen, and clicked around a bit. “Bryant wouldn’t tell me what he wanted with the list. Can you?”
Annie smirked. “Certainly. Both of the scrapbook pages found on the victims were pages about the same day—the employee picnic. So we were thinking the pages might have some relevance, like—”
“The killer was at my picnic?” Pamela lowered her voice as if she didn’t want anybody to hear her.
“Who knows?” Annie said. “But it’s a lead.”
Pamela sat back in her large, red leather chair and looked as though she was wilting.
“Are you okay?” Annie said. “Can I get you something?”
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just a lot to digest. An employee dead in my freezer. Murdered. And now, there’s a good chance it was someone who works for me that killed her and maybe her sister.”
“It is a lot. I think we reporters and cops forget sometimes that not everybody is as used to murder as we are.” Annie smiled sympathetically.
“I’m thinking about my current staff and wondering which of them were at the picnic. In the restaurant business, the turnover is so awful. Fortunately, I do have some employees that have stayed with me for years.”
“But not the kitchen staff?”
“Right. Well, now, the chefs do stay awhile. I try to keep them on. But the dishwashers, busboys—”
“All of whom are foreign?”
Pamela nodded. “It seems as if we get them on their way to somewhere else. They get their working permits, green cards, then they leave. Some of them stick around until they get an education. Like Jorge. He is taking online classes in business. I imagine he won’t be here by this time next year.”
Annie remembered Irina’s reaction to Jorge at the crop. “Do you do background checks?”
“On Americans, I do,” said Pamela, handing Annie the sheet with the list of picnic attendees. “Hathaway checks into background of the immigrants they send me.”
“Tell me, is Mr. Hathaway always difficult?” Annie asked.
“Humph. I don’t know. I rarely deal with the man. My husband Evan is the one who got us involved with them. I will say Hathaway appealed to my husband’s pocketbook and my sense of altruism.” Pamela tapped her long, red nails on the desk. It was nearly spotless.
“Your husband?” Annie asked. “I thought this place was your baby.”
“What made you think that? Kraft Corporation owns it, just like it does half of Cumberland Creek.”
“What?”
“My husband bought me out when we married. It’s been great, for the most part. I don’t have to worry about the money, just running the place and the creative aspects. His people take care of the rest.”
Annie’s respect for Pamela took a nosedive. Up until then, she had thought of her as a smart, independent woman. “What else does your husband own?”
“Well, it’s not just my husband. I own half of the Kraft company, of course, but he runs it. Let me think of some places we own that you might know. The Riverside Apartments? Vera’s dance studio? Several empty buildings on Main Street.”
Annie had no idea. Her stomach tightened as she thought about those new apartments and how close they were to the park where Esmeralda’s body was found. Also how close they were to the Drummond place. How had the Drummonds managed to keep it from the Krafts? And what, if anything, did it all have to do with two murdered sisters?
Chapter 52
“Well, hello, Cookie,” Beatrice said when she opened the door. “Come in, dear. We’re stuffing our faces with apple pie and ice cream. Join us.” She led Cookie into the kitchen.
“Thanks,” Cookie said and sat at the table with Jon, who smiled and nodded in between bites of pie.
Beatrice set an extra plate of pie on the table. Cookie reached for a fork and dug in.
“What’s on your mind, dear?” Beatrice asked.
Cookie had put on some weight. These days she ate anything set in front of her. It was a good weight gain in Beatrice’s mind—the woman had been entirely too thin.
Cookie shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about the Martelino sisters. How sad it is. I went for a walk over by where they lived.” She had been walking a lot lately. It was part of her healing process. At least, that’s what her doctor said. “Have you noticed how close the apartments are to the Drummond place? I mean from a certain angle? It’s not something you’d notice right away.”
“Yes,” Jon said. “We were walking over there the other day and noticed the same thing.”
“There’s a Mexican woman living in the Drummond place,” Beatrice offered. “I was a little surprised by that. In fact, I was surprised that people are still living there at all. It doesn’t look like it from the outside. But Emma says that’s on purpose, to put off robbers. What do you think? Why does this remind you of the sisters?”
“I’m certain I saw one of them—I think it was Marina—about a week before she died, sitting on the steps of the house with a man,” Cookie said. “I just remembered it when I was over there.”
“A man?” Beatrice didn’t want to get too excited, but maybe this was the break they had all been waiting for.
“I was just walking down there and I suddenly remembered. You know how my memory is,” Cookie said, meeting Bea’s eyes and then looking away in embarrassment.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just feel . . . so helpless most of the time. I feel like I should be able to remember things by now.”
“Honey, you were struck by lightning. You’re lucky to be alive,” Beatrice said.
“I just feel like I’m missing . . . something. I have this longing, this aching. I don’t know what it is,” Cookie said.
“You’re missing yourself,” Beatrice said after a beat. “I don’t believe I’d ever known a young woman like you before. You were so solid in your skin. I didn’t always agree with everything you said. I never liked your veganism,” Beatrice joked, “but you were so solid. So you. I’m certain that sense of self is what you’re missing.” She sat back in her chair. “I think about our conversation at the jail sometimes.”
The three of them sat, eating their pie and ice cream.
“Should we call the police?” Jon finally asked.
“For what?” Beatrice said.
“About what Cookie remembered. A man?”
“Yes, Jon’s right. I should call Bryant,” Cookie said.
“Don’t forget to tell Annie, too,” Bea said. “Why don’t I call Annie and you call Bryant. We’ll get ’em both over here.”
But once they made the calls, Bryant wanted Cookie to go to the station to give a description of the man she’d seen with Marina and Annie was helping Ben with his math homework.
“I don’t know Bea, I just don’t understand this math,” Annie had said over the phone.
“I’ll be over, dear,” Beatrice said. “I can help. In the meantime, you think about who that man could have been with Marina. What were they doing on the front porch of the Drummond house?”
“I will. Thanks Bea. You’re a life saver.”
Well, Beatrice wasn’t so sure about that. But she did know math. She loved math. For her, it was the poetry of the universe. But then again, so was pie.
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Chapter 53
Karen and Tracy were on to DeeAnn. They had enough medical background to know that she had way too many pills.
“What have you done, Mom?” Tracy said. “How did you get so many pills?”
DeeAnn stood and crossed her arms. “I don’t need to answer to you. For God’s sake, you’re my daughter.”
“Mom. You went to another doctor, didn’t you?” Karen picked up the bottles and looked them over. “Yep. That’s what you did.”
The room went silent as DeeAnn’s daughters took her in.
DeeAnn didn’t back down. “Look. I’m in a lot of pain. Doctor Flathers doesn’t seem to get it. I’m a big woman. Those little ole painkillers he gives me are just not helping.”
“What did he say about surgery?” Tracy said.
“He said he’d like to wait awhile and see if the disk slips back into place. In the meantime, he gave me a shot. Didn’t do any damn good. I have a life, you know? I’ve got to get back to the shop. There’s your dad, the house, my friends. I can’t function when I’m in pain.”
“Mama, pain is a funny thing,” Tracy said. “You know they’ve done all kinds of studies about it. Sometimes people get, I don’t know, used to their pain, but still take pills to numb it, instead of trying to develop a tolerance. Are you okay?”
“What the hell do you mean?” DeeAnn said. “I’m not okay. I’m in pain! I keep telling you that.”
“That’s not what she means, Mom. She means is everything okay . . . in your life?” Karen said.
DeeAnn was floored. Of course everything was okay in her life. Why did her daughters think it wasn’t? She turned and walked out of the kitchen to plop herself on the couch. She didn’t want to talk with her daughters about her life. What was there to talk about? It was the same as it ever was.
“Mom?” Karen followed her in the room. She was trailed by her sister. “I know you think of us as little girls. But look at us. We’re grown women. We’re educated. And we love you. We think you might have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” DeeAnn said.
“With the pills, Ma. The doctor said there’s no reason you should be in such horrible pain,” Tracy said.
“What the hell does he know? I’m going to get another opinion,” DeeAnn snapped.
“Okay,” Karen said. “You do that. And I’ll go with you.” She sat down on the couch next to her.
DeeAnn was confused—did her daughters think she was addicted to painkillers? Or addicted to pain? Or both? Was it all in her mind? Was she in pain? She sighed—of course she was in pain; it wasn’t in her mind. She knew that much. Why didn’t they? They didn’t know how it pinched at her and sent jags of pain through her lower half.
“I’d have thought that two nurses would be a bit more sympathetic,” DeeAnn said. “I’m a little surprised.”
“I am sympathetic,” Karen said, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “I also know how easily people get addicted to these things. You haven’t been yourself.”
DeeAnn felt something blooming in her chest. Was it fear? Was she addicted? “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I’m not addicted to anything. I’m as much myself as I ever was. I’m just getting older. I was even thinking about retiring before this happened.”
“Retiring? You? I can’t see that,” Tracy said.
“Well, baking is hard work. Physical. And my back has been bothering me for quite some time,” DeeAnn said.
“What would you do with yourself?” Karen asked.
“What does anybody do with themselves when they retire?” DeeAnn sighed. “I thought, I don’t know, I’d hang around with my daughters and maybe someday be a grandma.”
“Don’t look at me,” Karen said. “I’m not interested in kids right now.”
“But you and Adam?” Tracy asked.
Karen groaned. “Look. I keep telling you people, I like him. But I’m not looking for marriage. If I were, I think he’d be a great husband and father.”
DeeAnn sat forward.
“But I’m not. We’re just having fun right now. So don’t go making wedding plans, Mom.”
“Oh, I know things are different now,” DeeAnn said. “Women have a lot more options. And I think it’s great. I raised you both to be strong, independent women.” Her voice cracked. “And that’s exactly what I’ve got.”
Chapter 54
“The police took Jorge this morning,” Randy whispered into the phone. “Came here and got him early, like at five-thirty.”
“What? Why?” Annie said.
“I’m not sure, but I think someone saw him with one of the sisters before—”
“Maybe that’s who Cookie saw. She was at the station last night giving them a description,” Annie said.
“Cookie? I wouldn’t trust her memory.”
“Memory is an odd thing. She suddenly remembered seeing Marina sitting with a man on the front porch of the Drummond house,” Annie said.
“Just because they were sitting there doesn’t mean he killed her. He’s odd, but I don’t think he’d hurt a fly.”
Where had Annie heard that before? People who killed were often everyday sorts that momentarily lost it. Was Jorge a killer? She took a deep breath and calmed herself. Randy was right. Just because Marina had been seen with Jorge before her death didn’t mean he’d killed her. The police must just be questioning him.
“I guess I should go down to the station. Who picked him up, Bryant or Sheriff Bixby?” asked Annie.
“Bryant.”
“Shoot, I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Randy laughed. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Annie finished loading the dishwasher and then drove to the station, shifting through the cases in her mind yet again. What did the police know? Two sisters were dead. Both of them had scrapbooking pages on their bodies, documenting the same day.
The sisters weren’t involved in any of the assorted gang activities in Cumberland Creek, but their deaths were not accidental or coincidental. Someone was making a statement. A cry for help?
That profile might fit Jorge, despite what Randy thought. Jorge didn’t seem quite together—maybe he was disturbed.
And then there was Hathaway Transatlantic. Could they have embroiled the sisters in something that got them killed? But what? That didn’t make much sense, even though Annie saw them for what they were—a shade away from human trafficking. But she couldn’t imagine what would involve them in the murder of women in small-town Cumberland Creek. What had the sisters known? What had they had that was worth killing them for?
As she pulled into the police station parking lot, Pamela’s cherry red 1957 Chevy roared in front of her. And what about Pamela? Did Pamela have it in her to kill?
Annie grimaced at the thought. Women did kill, she reminded herself. But Pamela seemed genuinely distraught over the murder of Marina. Of course, it could be an act, but what would Pamela’s motive be? Why would she kill her own employees? That didn’t make sense.
What did make sense was that Pamela was at the police station. Likely there to help Jorge, who was probably frightened beyond belief. He seemed very little-boy-like.
Annie opened the door to a crowded waiting area. There sat Pamela with Irina, Jorge’s aunt. They looked up at Annie. Pamela looked worried, but Irina looked haunted, stricken.
“Any ideas you have about writing a story about Jorge, you can just forget it,” said Pamela.
“I’m just here to see what’s happening,” Annie said. “It’s part of the story I’m already working on. If he’s innocent, there’s no reason I need to write about this.”
Pamela seemed awfully protective of Jorge. Was she hiding something?
“Of course, he’s innocent,” Irina said. “Of course he is.” She was adamant. Her eyes flared with anger.
Annie left to find the bathroom, then slipped down the hall to have a look around. The doors were all closed. A uniformed officer passed by her and she turned
to go back to the waiting area.
At the corner she heard voices so she stopped and listened. She peeked around the corner and saw Bryant standing in the waiting area, shaking Pamela’s hand, then Irina’s. Then he started walking down the hallway toward her.
Damn.
“What are you doing here?” he said when he approached her.
“I was in the ladies’ room. You know what goes on in there, right?”
Bryant placed his hands on his hips. “That’s not what I meant, Annie. Come to my office please.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m in kind of a hurry. Maybe for a few minutes.” She followed him down the snaking gray hallway.
After they were situated, he looked at her and said, “Spill.”
“I was just here checking on Jorge. Someone said you brought him in.” Why did she feel like she was lying, when she was telling the truth?
“We just brought him in to see if he knew anything about the murders or the sisters. He’s not a suspect,” Bryant said. “You could have just asked me. It’s really not a big deal.”
“How close are you to solving this case?”
“Very.”
“Can you give me any details?”
“Of course not.”
“But you can say that Jorge is not a suspect.”
“Not at this point.”
“Interesting that his aunt and employer both came in so quickly,” Annie said, gauging Bryant’s reaction carefully.
He lifted one eyebrow. “I guess they care about him or something.”
“Was he dating Marina?” Annie hated to ask, but she had to.
He guffawed. “No. He wanted to, but nothing came of it.”
“I’m assuming he’s the man Cookie saw with her at the Drummond place?” Annie asked.
Bryant nodded.
“What were they doing together, then?”
“I think there was a scrapbooking crop there that night and they had stepped outside for some air. It was a Friday night.”
“What was Cookie doing there?” Annie wondered out loud.
Adam tensed and moved around in his seat. “Ask her. She’s your friend, isn’t she?”
Scrapbook of the Dead Page 18
