A Crafty Christmas (20 page)

Beatrice's craft bazaar to fund the local food bank was in full swing. The ladies on the committee all behaved—much to Beatrice's surprise. A steady stream of customers came into the church hall and paid their five dollars or left a bag of canned goods at the front desk. Either way, the food bank would profit. Each of the vendors paid fifty dollars to set up and was giving the food bank 40 percent of the profit.

She took a break after collecting at the front door for a couple of hours and walked down the neat aisles of card tables aligned side by side. There were Christmas quilts, wreaths, and candle holders. Glittering homemade ornaments hung from Elsie Mayhue's tabletop tree. Crocheted ornaments were lined neatly on the table next to Elsie's, and next to that was a table of homemade cards and carved frames.

Beatrice had a dulcimer player sit on the podium and play music; the sounds of the strings soothed the crowd—or so it seemed. The scent of bayberry filled the air as Beatrice walked past Becky Richmond's homemade candles. Beatrice never cared for smelly things like potpourri and strongly scented candles, but she did like bayberry very much. It reminded her of Ed, who had loved bayberry soap. The thought of Ed spread warmth through her. She would always love and miss him. Always. But there was enough room in her old heart for Jon, who, by the way, could not stand bayberry. Such was life.

Jon was surrounded by a group of women who were gathered around Sally Krestly's table, looking over her lace. She was an amazing talent.

Jon held up the lace to the light. “Extraordinary,” he said. “Look at this!”

“Gorgeous,” Beatrice said.

She moved along to Mariah Skylar's table, full of herbal crafts, mostly from her own garden. Lavender soap. Rosemary wreaths. Rose bath salts. Lilac sachets in homemade muslin bags. Mint tea. Beatrice found it all very charming. It reminded her of home and her cousin, Rose, who was an herbalist.

“Just wonderful,” Beatrice exclaimed.

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Matthews,” Mariah said.

The Skylars were mountain folk. Beatrice had known the family for years. They were good, solid, and kept to themselves.

“Rose taught me a few things,” she said.

Beatrice warmed.

“Ms. Matthews, can I see you a moment?” A woman came up beside her and pulled her off to the side.

“I asked if we could have the first spot and was told we could,” she said.

“I'm sorry, whoever told you that was wrong. We can't make promises like that. First come, first served. Or in this case first spots.”

The woman crossed her arms and glared at Beatrice.

“It looks like you're doing a fine business though.” Beatrice pointed out her table, full of homemade jellies and jams in glistening glass jars, as the dulcimer played “Silent Night” in the background.

“Yes, but we could be doing better. Placement is everything,” she said.

“Who told you that? Product is everything. Besides, we're all here for charity, right?”

The woman looked down. “You know,” she said, “I grew up hungry. And I wanted to help as best I can. It's an awful way to live, not knowing where you're going to get your next meal.”

Beatrice's heart melted and she wrapped her arm around the young woman. “You're doing just fine,” she said. “Now, you better get back to your table.”

The woman walked over, stood behind her table and started answering a question about her blackberry jam.

“We have both,” Beatrice overheard her say. “We have the kind with sugar and without.”

Jam without sugar? Who would want that?
Beatrice mused as she moved along through the aisle and spotted the table of baked goods that her committee was manning. DeeAnn had really come through and they were selling a lot: brownies, chocolate chip cookies, gingerbread, pumpkin bread, and scones. Oh Lawd, the lemon poppy seed scones! Beatrice needed to scoop oneof those up now.

Jon was close on her heels. “Do you want a scone? I do.”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” she said.

Beatrice spotted Sheila and Vera the next aisle over, at the table where the handmade rag dolls were lined up. Vera was purchasing one. Oh, Lizzy was going to love that doll. Christmas with a child was the best kind of Christmas. Beatrice never really minded the holiday, but since Lizzy had come along, quite unexpectedly a few years back, her Christmases had been pure magic. Only four years ago, she had given up hope of having a grandchild. Then Vera went and got pregnant right as her marriage was breaking up. After a brief stint of living on her own, Vera had moved back in with Beatrice. And it was working out. Now that Vera and Eric were getting so close, Beatrice wondered if her daughter would be getting married again.

Sheila and Vera spotted Beatrice and sauntered up to her.

“Well, if it ain't the scrapbooking queen looking like hell on a Saturday morning,” Beatrice said to Sheila. But the next thing Beatrice knew, Shelia fell into her embrace and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, too, you old bat.”

Despite herself, Beatrice blinked back a tear. “Glad you two are home safe and sound.”

“We're home, all right, but I'm not sure how safe we are,” Sheila said. “I swear I think creepy guy is here.”

“Who?” Beatrice asked.

Vera explained. “I think that bump on her head has scrambled her brains.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Beatrice said. “I noticed a strange man a few days ago when I was walking Lizzy home from school.”

“I'm sure it's just someone here for the holidays,” Vera said. “Can't people visit this town without arousing suspicion? Don't freak Sheila out even more.”

Beatrice took a good long look at Sheila. Eh, she appeared to be okay. Her disheveled self stood looking back at Beatrice, with her hand on her hip, as if to say “what are you looking at?”

“Well, here we are on a Saturday night, three days before Christmas, like none of us have anything else to do,” DeeAnn said, as she slipped her scrapbook out of her bag and onto the table in Sheila's basement. This was her spot. The spot she sat in every week to scrapbook and visit. She then pulled a tin of cookies out of another bag. “Sugar cookies,” she said. “You know, sometimes I think there's nothing better than a simple sugar cookie.”

“Oh yes, especially with tea,” Sheila said. “Anybody want some hot tea?”

“I think only booze for me tonight,” Paige said after a moment. There were murmurs of agreement. Sheila poured the wine and Annie dumped a bag of pretzels into a plastic bowl as Paige laid out pumpkin squares and brownies.

Paige took a sip of wine and sniffed. “Lord, it's been a week like no other. It's like one minute you're in the tropics and the next home where it's colder than a witch's you-know-what. No wonder I've gotten a cold.”

“I guess that's better than being sick on the ship,” Sheila said, and smiled. “Paige had one too many and spent the night heaving.”

“And part of the day, as well. Drinking and sailing? Not a good combination,” Paige said as the others giggled and started scrapbooking. “What do you have there, Annie?”

“This is my Hanukkah album. I need to finish it up,” Annie said. “But this is the book I'm most excited about.” She pulled out her new art journal.

“What is that?” Sheila said, leaning across the table.

“Oh my God, these pumpkin bars are a-mazing!” DeeAnn said. “I want the recipe.” Then she turned her attention to Annie's journal. “Wow. Annie, you're an artist.”

Sheila surveyed the book. “She certainly is,” she said. “I love this page.” Sheila ran her fingers over the flowers that Anne had painted. She had written the words “Nourish your spirit with inspiring things. My inspiration: poetry, my boys, brownies, my friends, my pink kitchen.”

“I'm having a lot of fun with it. Don't know what's gotten into me,” Annie said.

“Art journaling is the new craze,” Sheila said. “I've been reading about it. Haven't quite taken the plunge yet.”

“Wow, love this one, Annie!” DeeAnn pointed to the next page. “What's in my head?” was scrolled across the page along with a black and white photo of herself in the center. She had printed out words and then cut them apart and glued them around the photo to create a frame of words.

The word “murder” stood out.

“Why is murder in your head?” DeeAnn asked.

“At the time I was thinking about the book I'm writing and about the murders on the ship,” Annie said. “Unfortunately there's a lot of murder in my life.” Annie wilted. “I'm so glad I'm almost finished with this book.”

“Me too, Annie,” Sheila said. “I haven't had as much experience dealing with murder as you have. But it's unpleasant. I never want to trip over another dead body!”

Paige began to giggle nervously.”Only you, Sheila. Only you.”

The rest of them giggled, too. It served to clear the air. Who wanted to talk about murder on a Saturday night?

“So, Sheila,” Annie said, “do you have a new job?”

“Well,” she answered, opening her laptop. “I think I'm going to accept the position with David's Designs. It's a freelance job, but I'll have to go to their offices once a month.”

“How exciting!” DeeAnn said. “What did Steve say about it?”

“I haven't told him yet,” Sheila said.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. “What?” Vera said, looking up from her page. “Why not?”

Sheila shrugged. “He missed me so much and keeps going on about how he didn't like me being gone. I haven't found the right time to approach the subject.”

Everybody went back to scrapbooking. DeeAnn was working on a Christmas cookie page. She had a cut-out green bowl with a spoon sticking out of it and a recipe card coming out of the top. She was working on the blank space where she'd place the photo at some point.

“I think you need to tell your husband soon,” DeeAnn said when she noticed Sheila was looking at her page.

“I think you need to make the frame red, not green,” Sheila replied.

“Steve's going to be okay with it,” Vera said. “No need to make a big deal out of it.”

Sheila's stomach sank. She was a modern woman, an artist. Why did it matter to her so much what her husband thought of this change?

“If this is something you want to do, I'm sure he'll support you,” Annie said.

“It's just that—”

“You've been home all this time,” Vera said. “That's where he is most comfortable. But I've known him as long as you have. He's going to be okay with this. He believes in you.”

Vera focused on her snowflake page. A photo of Elizabeth and her first snowman was in the center of the blue and white page. She had layered the background of the photos with silver paper and a bit of lace.

“I guess I've had other things on my mind,” Sheila said, handing Vera the blue-checked washi tape.

“Like what?” Annie said, and bit into a brownie.

“Like creepy guy from the cruise being in Cumberland Creek,” Sheila said.

The room hushed.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Vera said. “I'm sure whoever you saw resembled the creepy man. Anyway, why would he come here?”

“I saw him,” Annie said. “Or at least we think it was the same guy Sheila saw the other day. He was walking along Ivy. I asked him if I could help him and he said he was simply taking a walk.”

“Y 'all need to remember there's a new B and B in town. Lots of guests stay there,” DeeAnn said. “You can't go around accusing people just because they are not from around here and look a little strange.”

Annie laughed. “That's true. And now there are those new apartments for rent over on Ridge Avenue. I suppose we will be seeing more and more new faces.”

Sheila wanted to relax. But the creepy guy on the ship was so unsettling, and so different, that he was hard to shake. Whoever the person was who had caught her eye the other day gave her the same feeling. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand.

It had been a while since Annie had walked into the Cumberland Creek Police office. They had made some improvements. It looked brighter, though not exactly cheery. Of course, Mondays were rarely cheery, no matter how brightly lit.

The woman at the desk looked up at Annie from behind thick glasses. “Ms. Chamovitz?” she said.

Annie nodded.

“They are expecting you.”

“Thanks,” she said.

When Adam called and asked her to come in with the reports she had, along with any of the other research she'd done, at first she thought he was joking. But he was dead serious.

She walked into the room and introductions were made. Two FBI agents joined them.

“We'd like to start by having a look-see at the reports you have,” the redheaded Agent Woods said.

“Look-see”? Who says that?
Annie had to stop herself from rolling her eyes—or at least asking him where he came up with it.

She pulled out the papers and set them on Bryant's desk.

“She's right,” Bryant said. “Different times.”

“And of course different names. But why the time change?” The other man, Agent Rodriguez, said. He pointed to the report with the earlier time. He pulled out their reports. His had identical times on them.

“Someone tried to cover their mistake,” Bryant said, shrugging.

“Well, sure. But I don't think that's the whole story,” Annie said. “You'd think they'd be extra careful on the second report since they'd already sent a false report of Sheila's death.”

All four of them sat in silence.

“The more we dig into this, the stranger it gets,” Woods said. “We may never really know what went on that day. Or the hours leading up to it.”

“We know the scrapbook had ricin all over it,” Rodriguez said.

“That's about all we know. We can't find any evidence that Ms. Rogers had any of that substance in her home,” Detective Bryant pointed out.

“She could have gotten rid of it,” Rodriguez said.

“Wait a minute,” Bryant said. “I know this woman. Why would she kill Allie? She had no motive.”

“Jealousy?” Agent Woods said with a tone of uncertainty.

“Gentlemen,” Annie spoke up. “I think we're getting off topic here. We know Sheila didn't kill them.”

“Or at least there's no evidence to support that,” Woods agreed.

“Okay. What we don't know is where the ricin came from and why there appears to be a time discrepancy here,” Annie said.

“I think I have it,” Bryant said. “Or at least one possibility.”

They all looked at him in expectation.

“The only thing that makes sense is at first someone wanted us to think Sheila was dead, or—”

“Or,” Annie interrupted, “someone thought she would be.”

“Okay,” Woods said, and sucked in air. “It's a stretch, but it's a possibility.”

“Well, yes, the book was in her room. How did it get there? Who had it before then?” Bryant asked.

“The judges of the competition,” Annie said.

“We've already talked with them. Well, almost all of them. I'll check on that last one—Theresa Graves.”

Annie recognized the name. “She has a record. I checked her out.”

“Why would you do that?” Bryant said.

“She was heckling Sheila on a cruise where a murder took place,” she said as she felt the breath almost escape out of her body. It was Sheila the killer was after. Sweet and kind Sheila. How could someone want her dead?

She jumped up out of her chair.

“Annie!” Bryant said. “Hold on. Where are you going?”

Her heart was racing so fast that she thought it would pound out of her chest. “I need to get to Sheila.”

“What do you hope to accomplish?” He was standing next to her now. “This is just a theory.”

“Yes, but it's the only thing that makes sense, isn't it?” she managed to say. “Someone filled out the report thinking Sheila would be dead. Someone on that ship. Someone with access to the security office. It makes sense.”

“So much about murder doesn't make sense,” Rodriguez spoke. “The fact that this one piece of information makes a kind of sense means nothing at all. We still don't have a strong case.”

“Besides, if you go and tell Sheila, she will be more of a mess than she is now,” Adam said, reaching for her arm. “Don't go yet.”

She glanced at his hand on her arm, pulled herself away from him, and sat back down. Her legs were actually shaking. How could she not have thought of this possibility? How could none of the other scrapbookers thought of it? Or the ship's security? They were all looking at who killed Allie and Harold. Nobody realized it might have been a foiled attempt on the life of Sheila Rogers.