Scrapbook of the Dead (19 page)

Vera had been stopping by to see Bea every morning after she dropped Elizabeth off at preschool. Beatrice liked sitting with her grown, happy daughter, sharing coffee and muffins or something. Anything. It seemed as if they had reached a new level in their relationship. Vera was more mature and happier than Bea had ever seen her.

Vera had brought some of her homemade chocolate to sample. When Bea took a bite and let the chocolate wallow around on her tongue a bit, she was transported.
Lawd, I'm in heaven.

Vera frowned. “What's wrong, Mama?”

“That's the best chocolate I've ever had in my life,” Bea said in a hushed tone.

Vera waved her off, then tilted her head. “Well, the ingredients I used are some of the finest. It's single original dark chocolate from Ecuador. And the spices are all fresh and organic.”

“It's extraordinary,” Bea said. “I think you should take DeeAnn up on her offer. Have a side business selling chocolate.”

Vera sat up straighter in her chair. “But I'm a dancer, Mama. I'm not a chocolatier.”

“There's no reason you can't be both,” Bea said. So much of her daughter's identity was wrapped up in dancing. Had Bea ever felt that way about the quantum physics that was her careeer? Oh yes, she had. How about that? She shared something in common with Vera. Bea's obsession with physics was the same as Vera's preoccupation with dancing—and maybe chocolate, as well.

“I suppose you're right. And maybe I could make a little more money with the chocolate. The studio is still struggling,” Vera said.

“Why are you worried 'bout money? You're living with a man who has plenty.”

“That's him, Mama. That's his money. To tell you the truth, it makes me feel odd sometimes, living in that gorgeous house, surrounded by luxury when I'm not sure if I can pay the rent on my studio.”

Beatrice mulled that over. “I guess that would be strange.”

“Well,” Vera said, standing up. “I better get going. I've got some little dancers coming in this morning. What are you going to do today?”

“I'm not sure,” Beatrice said.

Vera would not like the idea of her mother going to visit Sheriff Bixby on her own. She tended to be a little overprotective, as well as overly concerned with what other people thought. Beatrice, on the other hand, didn't give a rat's ass.

As soon as Vera left, Bea drove over to see Sheriff Bixby. She sifted through what she thought he could offer her as to why he threatened Emma. None of it would hold water as far as she was concerned. Who did he think he was?

The sheriff's building was well-kept, clean, and official looking. When Bea walked in, she noticed a lovely bouquet of flowers on the receptionist's desk. The woman behind the desk looked up and greeted her. It was all very nice and very different from the Cumberland Creek police station.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Matthews,” the receptionist said pleasantly.

Beatrice sat down and halfheartedly browsed through a magazine until the receptionist said, “Ms. Matthews, the sheriff will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Bea said and followed the young, well-dressed woman through the door and down a hallway.

Sheriff Bixby was seated behind his desk when they entered the room. He stood and offered his hand to Beatrice. She shook it and they smiled at one another very pleasantly.

“Please have a seat,” he told her. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“No thank you,” Beatrice said. “I won't be here long.”

“Well, what can I help you with?”

“I saw you coming out of Mountain View the other day.”

He nodded.

“You were there to see my good friend, Emma Drummond,” she continued.

“Yes, she's my wife's aunt. They were very close.”

“Were?”

“Yes, you know how these things go. Family issues.”

“I don't mean to pry, but Emma seems to think you threatened her.”

Sheriff Bixby's eyebrows went up and the pleasant look on his face disappeared. “I don't know if you noticed,” he said slowly, “but Emma is ill.”

“I know about the agoraphobia. But the rest of her is as sharp as she used to be. I've known her my whole life.”

He cackled. “Ms. Matthews, she ain't never been right. You gotta know that.”

Beatrice tilted her head and leaned in. “What I know is, her husband used to beat her to a pulp. I saw it.”

Sheriff Bixby bit his lip, looked out his window, and then back at Beatrice.

“And,” Beatrice went on, “that does tend to mess with a woman's mind. But are you saying she made it up? That you didn't threaten her?”

“Look, I'm not sure this is any of your business, but I will tell you she may have taken what I said as a threat. I don't need to threaten poor old Emma Drummond. Why would I do that?”

“That's what I want to know.”

“Take my word.” He smiled.

Lawd the man is full of smiles and charm.
If he'd been wearing a bow tie, she'd have left a long time ago. Bea's daddy used to say never trust a man wearing a bow tie, especially a charming and smiling one.

“I'm eighty-five years old,” Beatrice said. “Your good looks, fancy mustache, and charm mean nothing to me. I've seen a million good old boys like you.”

“Now, Ms. Math—”

She stood. “What do you want with Emma Drummond?”

Sheriff Bixby remained seated and just stared back at her, silently. He wasn't going to tell her a thing.

Annie followed the steps to Pamela's office. Pamela was at her desk, on the phone. She made eye contact with Annie and then held her finger up.

“Hmm-hmm,” Pamela said into the phone. “Okay. Thanks so much.” She hung up the phone and smiled at Annie. “Hey, Annie, what can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you about your employee picnic,” Annie said, getting right to the point.

“Please sit down,” Pamela said. “I'm not sure what the picnic has to do with anything. I've already given Bryant a list of everybody who was there.”

“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?

“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.