A Crafty Christmas (16 page)

Annie walked down the aisles of the grocery store, heading toward the bread. She popped three loaves into her cart. “Three loaves? Are you feeding an army?” a friend had once said to her when they were shopping together.

“My boys eat a lot of sandwiches,” Annie had explained. Truth is, they'd go through that bread in less than a week, which was why she was here on a Sunday afternoon. They had run out of bread and milk. No matter how she tried to plan for groceries, they ran out of something before week's end.

Annie loved the fact that the grocery store had recently expanded its hours and was now open on Sundays, which turned out to be a great day to shop because not many people shopped on Sundays in Cumberland Creek.

Christmas music played in the background. By this point in the season, Annie was pretty sick of the music. She turned the corner and headed for the dairy section and ran right smack into Steve Rogers, Sheila's husband.

He laughed. “Where are you going so fast?”

“Just to get milk,” she said, and smiled. “I don't think I've ever seen you here before, Steve.”

“I hate this place. Sheila usually shops,” he replied. He looked forlorn and Annie was torn between feeling sorry for him and wanting to shake him.

“They'll be home soon,” Annie said, starting to move her cart around Steve.

“I hope so,” he said. “With all the stuff going on, I'm very worried.”

“What do you mean?” Annie asked.

“Sheila was questioned by the FBI today. Imagine,” he replied.

“That means nothing, Steve. They're investigating. Of course they need to talk with her. She discovered Allie's body,” Annie said, moving her cart beyond his so that they stood beside one another. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know you're worried. I am, too. But Sheila can handle herself.”

“I know that,” he said, after a minute. “It's just . . . it all seems so weird. The note. The murders.”

“Yes, I'll give you that. And now this business about Sharon Milhouse.”

Steve paled. “What?”

Annie realized nobody had told him about Sharon. “I'm sorry, Steve. We've been trying to figure out who could have killed Allie and were looking at the passenger list. . . .”

“Sharon Milhouse is on board?” he stammered.

“We're not sure it's the same person that you once knew,” Annie said. He didn't look good; his eyes widened as he paled even more. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Was he going to have a heart attack standing there in the grocery store? “In fact, Bryant said it's a long shot. A very long shot,” she added.

“She's still in the Richmond Institution, right?” Steve said, after a moment.

Annie shrugged and glanced away. She wished she had not told Steve all of this. He was coming undone. Yet, she couldn't quite lie to him. That wouldn't be fair. “Bryant's looking into all of this. You should call him,” she said, starting to walk away.

“Damned right I will. I want my wife to come home. Now. I want her to get on a plane and leave the cruise and come home where she belongs,” he said. Something about his voice made Annie spin around to look at him. Was it just her safety he was concerned about or was it something else?

“Steve,” Annie said, “you can't mean that. So there was a little trouble; Sheila will be fine. And think of all the people she's meeting. All of the opportunities she has laid down at her feet right now. She's so talented. Finally, she's being appreciated for it.”

With each word, Steve reacted as if she were pinching him instead of talking to him. He resembled a beleaguered child standing there, with his shoulders drooping.

“You'll be fine,” Annie said, and gave him a playful punch. “Gotta run, Steve. If you need anything, give us a call.”

“Thanks, Annie,” he said as she moved toward the milk.

Oh boy. What was that all about? Was Steve unhappy that Sheila was off pursuing her dreams? He'd always seemed so cool and supportive about everything. But this was the first time Sheila had left home on business. Usually he was the one traveling through the mountains with his outfitting company. One thing was certain: he didn't like his wife being gone. But Annie was uncertain how much of that was worry because of the murder, or maybe disdain because Sheila had the audacity to leave her family for a few days. Oy.

Sheila and Steve had been married for a long time. What—twenty-some years? Had four kids. And Sheila had always stayed at home, but also built her scrapbooking supply business. She'd always done it from home. This was new, this traveling around with successful scrapbookers. Could Steve be insecure after all those years of marriage? Or was he just being an asshole?

Good thing she didn't tell him about Theresa Graves. He might be hopping the next plane to the Caribbean to fetch his wife. What was a woman like that doing in the scrapbooking world? Annie shrugged. Scrapbooking attracted a wide variety of people—that was for sure. And why wouldn't it? Once you got over the overwhelming quality of it—where to start? I'm so behind! I know nothing about design!—it was fun and felt very rewarding to capture your family's memories. Sheila had gone into some local prisons and taught some scrapbooking classes and she said the classes filled up every time.

“Everybody has a story to tell,” Sheila liked to say.

Annie thought about Mary Schultz, the woman she was writing about. She definitely had a story to tell. She needed to get that book done and out of her life. She'd been dreaming about her again. Sad dreams. Scary dreams. Mary's life was both sad and scary.

As Annie placed her bread and milk on the counter to be paid for, she thought about human frailty. And how sometimes it turned into ugliness and violence.

“You've never seen such a beautiful garden, with all of these wild-looking flowers. I can't wait to show you the pictures,” Vera said over the phone to Beatrice. “Then we came back to the ship and Sheila was questioned by the FBI.”

“Thank goodness the FBI is finally there. Maybe they can get to the bottom of what's happening on that ship,” Beatrice said. “And let's hope those agents have it more together than the ones who visited me the other day.”

“They seemed to be real professional. But they kept Sheila's scrapbook.”

“Why?”

“It's evidence.”

“Really?”

“Well, I think it was in her room and everything. Maybe that's why, but we laughed and laughed about Sheila's scrapbook being evidence,” Vera said, and laughed a bit more.

“Now, that is funny,” Beatrice said, grinning widely. “Have a good time at the awards ceremony tonight. And try to be careful.”

“I feel so much safer knowing the FBI is here,” Vera said.

“I understand that, but remain vigilant. Have you all talked to any more of the men on your list?”

“No. We haven't been able to find them yet. It's a huge ship. We were lucky to find who we did. We'll keep at it, though.”

“Just make it a policy to stay away from single men on the ship. That ought to do.”

“On more than one level, I'm sure,” Vera said, and paused a beat. “I'm more concerned about Sharon Milhouse.”

“Anything ever come of that? I mean did you find her? Is it the same one?”

“Nothing. The thought of her being on this ship freaks me out. But now the FBI is on it.”

“Just a possibility that she'd be there, anyway—a very remote one, statistically speaking,” Beatrice said.

“Oh Mama, you and your statistics,” Vera said, and laughed. “But this time I like those odds. That woman scared me half to death. Steve too. Sheila didn't even know the half of it. But one morning Steve woke up with her in his bed. Completely naked, smeared with blood. Another time, she showed up in one of his classes with a gun. It turned out to be a fake. So many other stories. I'll fill you in when I get home.”

“So what's on the docket for today?” Beatrice changed the subject.

“We're shopping this afternoon. We're heading back to Florida tomorrow. They shortened our land time to a day. We really want to take a look around. Then tonight is the award ceremony. Sheila's as excited as could be.”

That thought warmed Beatrice. “The scrapbooking queen is excited? Imagine that,” Beatrice said, and harrumphed.

“She's been offered several different jobs since she's been here.”

“Jobs? Where? In Cumberland Creek?”

“No, I don't think so. Most of the companies are somewhere else, but she's talking about freelancing. One minute, Eric. I'm on the phone with Mama.”

“Go ahead and go. Don't spend too much money shopping,” Beatrice said, and hung up the phone. Well, Sheila had been offered some jobs. How fabulous was that?

Beatrice had no more than hung up her phone than it was ringing again.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey, Bea, it's Elsie.”

“Yes? What can I help you with?”

“Well, I had some questions about the bazaar.”

“And?”

“We've gotten three more vendors and one wants a specific table.”

“It's our policy that we don't allow that. It's first come, first served that morning. You know that,” Beatrice said.

“I know, but I'm trying to appease them.”

“Blame it on me. You can tell them I'm a Grinch. I don't mind.”

“If they are still interested, you're sure there'd be space?”

“Oh yes, plenty of space,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes. Lawd, the woman was driving her mad about the space issue. “I think I've told you that now about a million times. You need to relax about the damned space.”

“Well, I'm sorry, Bea,” she snapped. “I want everything to go smoothly. I don't want vendors coming back to us with complaints about space.”

“Look,” Beatrice said. “It's a charity event. If any of them complain about anything, then shame on them.”

Elsie was silent for a moment, then laughed nervously, more like a twitter really. “You're right, and if any of them complain, I'll tell them just that.”

“We need to keep reminding ourselves and the vendors that we are trying to raise funds for the hungry. We have plenty of hungry people right here in our area. That's why we are doing this—not to show off our products or whatever. People need to get a grip. It's friggin' Christmas,” Beatrice said.

“Friggin' Christmas indeed,” Elsie muttered.

When Sheila woke up the next day, she was surprised to find that she'd fallen asleep in her evening gown. After spending half the day shopping in Grand Caymen and the evening at the awards banquet, she'd stretched out on her bed to unwind before getting ready for bed. Hmmm. And here she was. Completely dressed and made up. She struggled to get out of bed and glanced at herself in the mirror, laughing out loud. What a mess!

And last night she'd looked the prettiest she had ever looked, except for maybe her wedding day.

She had sat at the head table with all of the big designers and talked about design, trends, paper versus digital, and how many exciting changes were happening in their field. When the time for the award came, Sheila's heart had raced. She'd be speaking in front of two thousand people, those in the huge dining room and those in the other dining rooms who watched from monitors.

“We have a very special guest this evening. Sheila Rogers, who is the winner of our Creative Spirit Award, has been scrapbooking for thirty years. She has a successful home-based scrapbooking business and, I might add, she maintains a weekly crop along with running her household. Did I mention she has four children?” Grace had said.

The audience had applauded.

“We've already told you about her design skill. You all know how talented she is. She's being honored tonight for those impressive skills, yes, but also her passion and determination. Thanks for coming aboard, Sheila!”

When Sheila stepped onto the small stage, after adjusting to the lights and the camera, she glimpsed herself on some big screens in the back of the room. She beamed. She cut a fine figure for a woman in her midforties. She blew a kiss at the crowd and they roared.

“Thank you all, thank you!” she said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She was glistening in her dress and happier than she could remember. But the tears started then—and she'd never been a pretty crier. Soon, mascara was running down her cheeks and she became a snotty mess as she was whisked away by one of the nice young servers.

Now, she glanced at the clock. Did she have time for a run? She didn't have to meet the others for another two hours. She reached for her workout clothes. She would at least try.

Coming back from her run, she passed by Henry's room, which had a huge plastic sheet draped over the door. A person in a white suit with strange-looking head gear passed by her and entered the room. They must have found the source of the poison in Harold's room! That was sort of a relief.

After her shower, Sheila headed to the breakfast buffet, where all of her crew were already waiting. Some had plates already piled high with food. Randy's plate had huge Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries. Goodness, the man could eat.

“Where've you been?” Paige asked.

“I'm only a few minutes late. I went for a run,” Sheila said.

“Trip over anything?” Paige asked with a grin.

“Not this time—thanks for asking,” Sheila shot back at her.

“You feeling okay?” Vera said, coming up to the table with a plate with an omelet and hash browns on it.

Sheila shrugged. “Not quite one hundred percent, but I'm getting there. You?”

Paige made a wavy hand gesture indicating she was so-so.

Sheila surveyed all the food and couldn't help but think of the poison possibilities. She told the others what she'd noticed earlier.

“I was hanging out in the kitchen last night,” Randy said. “Turns out there was a lot of investigating and testing the food that we didn't know about. At least the food is perfectly safe. They knew within hours that it wasn't food poisoning.”

“How did they know that?” Vera asked.

“They have a safety inspection team on board. The food testing is rigorous.”

“Where did the poison come from then?” Paige asked.

“Evidently something in Harold's room,” Sheila said, and turned her attention to the buffet. Suddenly she was ravenous.

“We were just talking about the crop before you arrived. It's going to be so much fun!” Randy said, then took a huge bite of waffle.

“I love Christmas-themed scrapbooking,” Vera said, and sighed. “And I love Christmas since Elizabeth has come along. It's so much fun playing Santa.”

“Love those dolls you bought her yesterday,” Paige said.

“I want to capture each moment,” Vera said wistfully. “Like my mama says, it's futile to try to stop time. But I say I can try to at least savor it.”

“You can,” Sheila said. “That's what we scrappers do.”

Later, when the group entered the cropping room, it was like walking into a Christmas wonderland, complete with a Santa and elves. A live string quartet was playing Christmas music and there was fake glittering snow strewn about the room. Sheila was seized by a pang of homesickness. Backdrops displayed quaint little towns decorated for the holidays. Cumberland Creek could have been one of those places. The cruise had created a winter Christmas scene for everybody here when Vera and the others already had the real thing at home waiting for them. Sheila shook it off as they arrived at their tables and set eyes on all of the wonderful crop goodies waiting for them.

“Welcome to the Scrap Your Christmas Crop,” said the woman in the front of the room. “Do you know what one of the biggest challenges to scrapbooking your Christmas is? That's right. Someone said it over there.” She pointed off to the left. “It's time. Well, we have a few pointers for you today as you scrapbook. Just a reminder, folks. I know some of you came from breakfast, but we have Christmas goodies at the food table. The tables will be full all day long.”

Sheila had known that immediately, as when she walked into the room the scent of gingerbread, chocolate, and mint greeted her. But good Lord, she couldn't eat another bite after that breakfast.

“I think I'll spew if I eat one more thing,” Vera said. She was already at work on a page. She was using one of the freebie papers, which was crimson, patterned with Christmas stars.

“You and me both,” Sheila said. “Oh, I love this mulberry paper.” She ran her fingers over the textured paper. She reached into her mini file folder and pulled out a photo of all four of her kids sitting in front of the Christmas tree and felt the gnawing of missing them.

“The first thing to do is decide what kind of scrapbooking you want to do. Are you adding a page or two every year to a Christmas scrapbook, or are you scrapbooking the entire season leading up to it?” their instructor said as people studied their photos and papers, some of them plunging into their layouts already.

“Okay, so that would be a bit mad,” Paige said. “To scrapbook the whole season? Who has the time for that? I'm lucky to get done my two or three pages every year.”

“I always thought it would be a fun challenge,” Sheila said. “There are several bloggers out there who offer classes starting December first every year. They send you prompts and other fun stuff.”

“I guess if you told yourself ‘I'm going to sit down every day and do this,' it might work out,” Vera said, holding up a glittering card stock snowflake and placing it on her page.

“If you're going to scrapbook the entire season, you need to be organized by December first. That means you have all of your supplies gathered and you have an idea of what time every day you'll give yourself to accomplish your goal,” the teacher said over the speaker.

Paige groaned. “Who are these people? Do they not have lives? Jobs?”

Sheila placed her photo on green cardstock. Yes, she liked the green as a background color for the photo. She sliced the card stock and glued the photo to it. Now, what kind of paper would work best? She sorted through the new paper they were given and found an interesting red paper with a wreath pattern on it. She placed the photo in the middle of the page and then sorted through all of the embellishments they were given. Buttons. Snowflakes. Candy canes. Stickers. Card stock.

“Can I get you some coffee or hot chocolate?” a server asked.

Sheila looked up at a server dressed as an elf. “Coffee, please,” she said, then noticed something odd about the table where the creepy guy had sat for every crop. It was completely empty. An irrational shiver traveled through Sheila.