Scrapbook of the Dead (14 page)

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Authors: Mollie Cox Bryan

BOOK: Scrapbook of the Dead
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Chapter 36
After everybody cleaned up, they all lingered a bit. DeeAnn took another sip of the whiskey. She was not fond of the drink, but she thought it might be taking the edge off her pain. “I'd love to go to that crop with you, Annie.”
“Maybe another time,” Annie replied. “After your back is better.”
“Plan on going back?” DeeAnn asked.
“I don't know. I haven't been to the first one yet. I can't imagine scrapbooking two nights in a row. I'm pretty comfortable with our group the way it is. I'm wondering what these women might have to say about the Martelinos.”
“Get the scoop,” DeeAnn said. “You know, it's kind of odd that there's another crop going on across town . . . weekly, like ours. Almost like a parallel universe kind of thing.”
“We are not the only scrapbookers in town,” Annie said.
Cookie opened DeeAnn's front door, walked in, and sat down on the edge of the couch where DeeAnn was propped up with pillows. They were all getting used to her wandering in and out of their houses.
“What are you going to do about that man?” Cookie asked. “I saw him leave.”
DeeAnn shrugged.
“You're not going to hire someone from his agency, are you?”
“Hell, no,” DeeAnn said. “I don't need any help right now and it seems like a whole lot of trouble.”
“I agree that something is not quite right there,” Beatrice said. “But he may not know that.”
“What do you mean, Bea?” Annie asked.
“Well, he's the head of the company and seems to have romantic notions about it. His daddy starting it to help his momma's people and all that. But it's a huge company now. I'd wager he doesn't know half the employees.”
“Good point,” Cookie said. “But I don't know enough about the business to make an educated opinion.”
DeeAnn studied Cookie for a moment. The person sitting on the couch next to her was actually acting like herself . . . for the first time in months. The murder cases seemed to spark something in her. DeeAnn's eyes momentarily caught Annie's, who also seemed to notice the spark in Cookie.
Cookie cleared her throat. She had noticed the exchanged look. “For some reason, these cases really touch me. Young women, basically, without a family, without a past, trying to make their way. The more I think about it, the more I remember feelings I must have had. Sometimes images come to me and I'm not sure if they are quite memories.”
DeeAnn's heart sank. Poor Cookie. Would she ever remember? Or was she destined to never know where she came from? The dead sisters and their story must be setting off some triggers for her.
“Their stories are so sad,” Beatrice said after a few minutes of quiet. She then slipped on her coat and left—which left Annie, DeeAnn, and Cookie still in the living room.
“You know, Cookie, I've often wondered how much you
want
to remember,” DeeAnn said.
Cookie lifted her head in surprise and looked directly at DeeAnn. “Sometimes I want to—other times I'm afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid I'm not a very good person. Afraid of something I might have done . . . something not right,” she said.
A hush fell over the room.
“Oh now, Cookie,” DeeAnn said a few moments later. “You and I don't see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I know you're a good sort. We all do.”
“That's true,” Annie said. “You may have something mixed up because of the way you disappeared from jail. Someone took you, remember. You didn't escape. And you surely didn't hurt those girls who were killed, back then, if that's what you're thinking. They found the killer. He's in prison now.”
“When I think I know myself, I know I couldn't hurt anything,” Cookie said. “But other times . . .” She shrugged. “Sometimes I feel a darkness inside me. I don't know what else to call it.”
“Oh goodness, honey,” DeeAnn said. “We all have that. You're not alone. Who knows what any one of us is capable of? Good or bad.”
“Or what life has in store for us,” Annie said. “Look at Sheila and all of these changes she's dealing with.”
“And DeeAnn,” Cookie said quietly.
DeeAnn suddenly felt a flush creeping over her. It was as if someone had opened a window to see right inside of her.
“DeeAnn?” Annie said, looking confused.
“Oh” DeeAnn waved her off—“it's just me getting older. Thinking about retiring. Stuff like that.”
“Big stuff, DeeAnn,” Cookie said, reaching out for her hand. “I don't know. I mean, look at me. I don't remember much. I'm not an expert, but I think it's important to acknowledge changes in our lives while we are living them. That's the best way to move forward.”
No,
DeeAnn wanted to say,
it's best not to look at anything too deeply
.
Annie's cell phone beeped. She picked it up and hit the
TALK
button. “Yes?” Her eyes widened. “Really? I'll be right over. Oh. Then we'll see you tonight.”
“Well, my word, you look like the cat that swallowed. . . something,” DeeAnn said.
“That was Randy,” Annie said. “Our friend Mr. Hathaway is at Pamela's right now, arguing with her and some young man. I told Randy I'd go over there, but he didn't think that was a good idea. I still might drop by. Randy's trying to figure out what they are saying.”
“What do you mean by that?” DeeAnn asked.
“There's a lot of Spanish being flung around,” Annie said, gathering her things.
“I thought Randy knew Spanish,” DeeAnn said.
“No. He speaks French, not Spanish, but he can make out some words. We'll talk about it tonight. He's coming with me to the crop.”
“Can I come, too?” Cookie asked.
“Of course,” Annie said. “Do you speak Spanish?”
Cookie shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Chapter 37
Annie was certain that the blue Cadillac parked outside Pamela's Pie Palace belonged to Christopher Hathaway. So he was still there.
Good
.
She pulled into the spot next to the Cadillac, sat in her car, and waited. After about fifteen minutes, the door to the Pie Palace opened. Pamela was with Mr. Hathaway and carrying a box of something—it looked like files.
As the two of them walked over to Hathaway's car, Annie opened her car door. “Hey.”
“Hi Annie,” Pamela said, smiling her perfect smile with perfect lips and perfect teeth.
“Do you need some help with that?” Annie asked, reaching out as Christopher Hathaway opened his trunk.
“I'm fine, Annie,” Pamela said and dropped the box into his trunk. “Just a bunch of old files to go into storage at Hathaway.”
“Why would you store your files there?” Annie said.
“Why don't you mind your own business?” Hathaway snapped. “The way our company manages things is none of your concern.”
“Well, I—”
“It's okay, Annie.” Pamela smiled again. “Why don't you go inside and get some pie?”
“That's what I came for, but I've lost my appetite,” she said and headed back to her own car. As she pulled away, she could have sworn she saw Pamela shove Christopher Hathaway.
 
 
Annie and Cookie picked up Randy from Elsie's B and B.
“You're right on time,” Randy said with surprise, placing his scrapbooking bag in the backseat next to Cookie.
Annie ignored the good-natured jab. “So what happened today?” she asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
“Well,” Randy said, shrugging, “I don't know what to make of it, but Pamela was very upset. I've never heard her raise her voice like that before.”
Annie turned her signal on and then made a turn. “What exactly did you overhear?”
“I heard the word ‘sponsor' and the word ‘money.' And the name Jorge over and over again.”
“Jorge?”
“Yes,” Randy said. “He works at Pamela's. Doesn't speak much English, and he seems . . . I don't know, kind of quiet.”
“What's he do there?” Cookie asked from the backseat.
“A little bit of everything,” Randy said. “He's harmless. Washes dishes. Helps with the supplies. Assists Pamela. Just whatever.”
“He can't be that harmless if he was involved in the kerfuffle,” Annie said.
Randy thought a moment. “That's true. That's one of the odd things about all this. I mean, usually he's so quiet and gets his work done. I wonder if it has to do something with Immigration.”
“Could be. We should check him out,” Annie said. “I'll run him through my databases.”
“One more thing,” Randy added. “They did mention the Martelino sisters several times.”
Annie felt a chill creep up her spine.
“Of course he did,” Cookie said. “We asked him about them. I'm sure he's unhappy with the attention. Even if he's on the up-and-up, nobody wants that kind of attention.”
Annie pulled into the long driveway of the Drummond house.
“This is where we are scrapping?” Randy said, then let his jaw drop. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
“So did I,” Annie said.
“Beatrice did, too,” Cookie said as she opened her car door. “Beatrice told me she used to know this family very well.”
Randy stood for a minute as if he was remembering something. “Yes, I think I remember this place. Didn't they used to sell apples?”
“You're asking the wrong people,” Annie said, opening her trunk and lifting her bag out of it. Cookie also reached in for her own tattered bag of supplies.
“I'll have to ask Mom about it,” Randy remarked.
The three of them walked up the sidewalk together. Leaves were scattered across the lawn and crunched beneath their feet. The moon was peeking through the clouds. The steps creaked as they ascended the porch. Laughter came from within the house.
Annie wasn't sure if the place truly looked abandoned—but it did need a paint job. The paint on the clapboard had long ago faded away, giving the house a gray color that easily blended into the night.
She rang the doorbell and Irina answered. “Come in, Annie. You brought friends. Good!” She opened her arms wide and they all entered. “The crop is already happening. But there's space for you all.”
They followed her into the dining room, which had been transformed since Annie had last been there. Six women were gathered around two long crop tables, four at one table and two at the other. Annie and her crew set up at the less crowded table.
“Everybody,” Irina said. “This is Annie Chamovitz. She's a reporter. We met the other day. I told you all about her.”
Annie looked up and smiled at the women. “And these are my friends, Randy and Cookie.”
Cookie smiled and Randy nodded.
“Please help yourself to some food once you are settled in,” Irina said.
Annie turned in the direction Irina had gestured and saw a table brimming with food. A heavy, spicy scent filled the air and made Annie's mouth water. Some of the croppers already had plates of food at their tables. Chips and salsa, paper bowls full of a stew that looked like chili, and flat bread with cheese and beans on it.
“The food looks and smells incredible,” Annie said, wandering over to the table and then seeing the plates of tiny colorful cookies and cakes. So pretty.
“
Paciencia
,” Randy said as he reached over and placed a round white cookie on his plate.
“You know it?” Irina asked.
He smiled and nodded. “Of course. We'd call them meringue cookies. I love them. Did you make them? They're beautiful.”
“Yes, thank you. I enjoy making things look nice and pretty,” Irina said.
After they filled their plates and sat down at the tables to scrapbook, Annie took a quick glance around the tables. Except for one, the women were mostly young, in their twenties. Irina was the oldest.
One of the younger women held up her page with a photo of a baby on it, framed in purple.
“Is she yours?” Annie asked.
The young woman nodded. “Yes, six months old. I'm Mary. This is my girl Sophia.”
“Beautiful,” Annie said, watching Mary beam. Mothers were the same everywhere. No matter where the cropping table was, when mothers got together and scrapped, they were always proud of their kids and loved to swap stories.
“Give me that!” a woman from the corner of the table said to another. “I want to use that paper.”
Annie looked her way just as the woman who had cried out took a drink of beer.
The women all stopped and looked up as a young man entered the room.
“What are you doing here?” one of the women said.
“He always comes for some food. You'd think he never eats,” Irina said and rolled her eyes. “Get some food and go. This is women's business.” She spoke in Spanish, smiling.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said, reaching for a plate, then turning to spot Randy. “Oh, Mr. Swanson,” he said, noticeably nervous. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm cropping, Jorge,” Randy said.
Jorge grinned. “Really?”
“Yes,” Randy said with an edge in his voice.
Jorge looked away and went about filling his plate with food.
Annie looked around the room. The women's laughter and general demeanor had changed when Jorge entered the room.
When he finally left, Irina waved her hand. “He's my nephew. I told my sister I'd keep an eye on him. But he's a pain in the ass.”
Annie grinned. It seemed the other women agreed, based on their laughter. Randy kept his eyes on his scrapbook, but she noted a slight stiffening in his jaw.
A few of the women were gathered around a die-cut machine. Annie found them fascinating but had never really gotten the hang of it, so she left her spot at the table and watched as the women placed a cartridge in the machine, then some cardstock. When the paper came out, it was perforated with beautiful flourishes and spirals.
“I love that,” she said. “What design is that?”
“I did this myself,” said the small woman standing next to her. “The designs are mine.”
“Wow. Amazing,” Annie said. “Do you work in the industry?”
The woman laughed. “No. I work as a maid. I'm thinking about going back to school. I've been talking to some people about it. I'm Rosa,” she said, extending her hand.
“Annie. Nice to meet you. Tell me, Rosa, did you know the Martelino sisters?”
“Know them?” Rosa said. “I lived with them.”
Annie's heart nearly lurched out of her chest. Could this be the break she'd been seeking?

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