Scrapbook of the Dead (21 page)

DeeAnn always looked forward to Halloween. She loved baking Halloween goodies—maybe even more than Christmas goodies.

Some years, she planned themes for Halloween. Last year's Harry Potter was probably the best, and it was so successful that they were offering it again this year—butter beer cookies, wizard hat cupcakes, mini-treacle tarts, Hedwig cookies, peppermint humbugs, and so on. According to Jill, who called her with an update every day, things were going smoothly at the bakery.

DeeAnn was grateful that she was up and about, even if it was just for short periods of time. She still couldn't drive and she still couldn't work. It was difficult to be patient with herself.

She flipped off the TV and sighed. It was the day before Halloween and she was bored. Karen was at work and Tracy was still asleep upstairs.

DeeAnn was certain that Tracy had come home to make sure she didn't become a painkiller addict. The thought of that made DeeAnn giggle. Her, an addict! Women like her did not become drug addicts. Her daughters were being overprotective.

Her doorbell rang and it startled her. She wasn't expecting anybody.

She opened the door and there stood Christopher Hathaway from Hathaway Transatlantic.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Her first thought was to say no, but she shrugged off her instinct. “Of course. I'm just a little surprised to see you, but please do come in.”

“I'm sorry to barge in like this,” he said, following her to the living room. “It's very rare that I'm in the area so I thought I'd take the chance to talk with you a bit.”

DeeAnn sat down, not waiting until he sat, as her back was feeling prickly.

Finally he also sat down. “I was just over at your bakery. It's lovely. And you have a bustling business.” His voice had a patronizing tone.

She smiled. “It's because it's Halloween.”

“I think I can help you out. Help you earn more money.”

“Really? How?”

“By helping you hire some very hard working Mexicans.”

DeeAnn took a deep breath. She was going to have to lay it on the line with him. It was no good trying to be polite with some people—they just didn't get it. “I don't think I'm interested in your services. I'm very happy with the people I have working for me now.”

“All of them?”

“Absolutely, even the vegan baker. She's done a great job.”

“You're overpaying them. You should be keeping more of your profit.”

“I do okay. I don't see any reason to not pay them well.”

He leaned in closer to her, which made her very uncomfortable. “I'm trying to get you to see the big picture.”

“Mr. Hathaway, how do you know that I
don't
see the big picture? I've had this business for years and have always paid my employees well. It's about respect. If it doesn't work out, then I let them go. It's that simple. But I have good folks working for me and I treat them well. Sounds like a sound business principle to me.”

Mr. Hathaway rolled his eyes.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” DeeAnn said, trying not to raise her voice. “Please leave my home.”

“Mom?” Tracy came down the stairs. “Everything okay?”

“I'm sorry. I was just trying to help,” Mr. Hathaway said, looking deflated.

“It's fine,” DeeAnn said to Tracy. “I was just showing Mr. Hathaway to the door.”

But he remained seated. “I'm not a very good salesperson, am I?”

“How do I know?” DeeAnn said. “I'm simply not interested in your services. You can't get blood from a turnip.”

He smiled. “True enough. Well, I think I need to start thinking about a new job. My daddy is going to fire me over this.”

“Over this?” DeeAnn said, surprised.

“You're not the only person to reject me. I haven't gotten any new clients in years and well”—he shrugged—“I think Hathaway Transatlantic might be on its last legs.” Suddenly all of his swagger was gone. He looked bereft.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee? Water?” DeeAnn asked, feeling sorry for him.

He nodded. “I'd love a cup of coffee.”

“I'll get it, Mom. Stay where you are,” Tracy ordered.

While Tracy was in the kitchen Mr. Hathaway continued. “It's kind of sad. My dad started the business with the best of intentions. But things have changed so much and gotten out of hand in some cases.”

“What do you mean?” DeeAnn asked, finally showing some interest.

“Well, it's getting harder and harder to police all of our business. The people on the ground, the sponsors and so on. So many of them . . . well, we caught one running drugs. Another had a prostitution ring. That's not what my daddy had in mind.”

“Maybe you need to pull back,” DeeAnn offered.

Tracy came into the room with two steaming cups of coffee. “Cream or sugar?” she asked as she set the cups down on the table.

“Nothing for me,” Mr. Hathaway said to Tracy. Then to DeeAnn he asked, “What do you mean, pull back?”

“Get back to the company's original mission. Close some of your offices. Gather your forces, your good guys, get rid of everybody else. Clean house.”

His eyes widened. “DeeAnn Fields, you are brilliant.”

“Well, now. Thanks for that.”

“I guess I knew it already. I just needed to hear someone else say it.”

DeeAnn sipped from her coffee. “What do you know about the Martelino sisters? Do you think their deaths had anything to do with the company?”

Mr. Hathaway shook his head. “At first, I thought they might, given the trouble we've been having. But, no, the operations here are clean. Those girls were good people. Their friends and employers all check out.”

“Except their parents are in prison,” DeeAnn said.

“I maintain they were set up,” he said. “It happens. We're trying to help. We've hired a very good lawyer. Maybe they'll be out soon.”

“Humph. So if none of Hathaway's folks had anything to do with the Martelino murders, who did?”

Mr. Hathaway was silent for a moment before speaking. “What we've found in terms of crime and our immigrant workers is that most of the time—not all of the time—it's their intermediaries or sponsors that are taking advantage of them and getting them involved in illegal activities.”

“Who would that be in the Martelino case? I know they weren't involved in anything shady—or at least not as far as we've been able to find. Who was their sponsor?”

“Pamela Kraft and the Kraft Corporation.”

“I know,” Annie said to DeeAnn over the phone. “It does seem suspicious. I mean, the Krafts own half of Cumberland Creek from what I can tell.”

“I don't dislike Pamela. I find it hard to believe she'd be involved in any kind of shenanigans, let alone murder,” DeeAnn said.

“And I have to say, she seemed as if she genuinely liked Marina. She was grieving. But her husband might be another matter.” Annie made a mental note to check him out further. On the face of things, he appeared legit—but she hadn't scratched past the surface yet.

“I wouldn't know him if I tripped over him. He keeps a low profile for a wealthy guy, I have to say. Have you checked out Hathaway?”

“Yes, and everything he told you is right on the money. They've been sinking for quite some time. They need to do a lot of policing to clean up their reputation. Well, I have to run. I'm going to Irina's crop again tonight.”

“Are you going to keep going to both crops?” DeeAnn asked.

“Maybe for a while, until I figure some things out. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Mike had taken the boys out for the evening, for pizza and some last minute costume purchases, so Annie was on her own.

She sometimes didn't know what to do with herself when by herself—which was odd since she spent most of every day alone. It was different, she supposed when she was alone during the day because she was working. When she had free time, she felt a bit like a caged animal let loose, having to decide what to do first.

But tonight she had an agenda.

 

 

As she pulled into the driveway of the Drummond house, she noticed that something was different. There were more and brighter lights coming from the windows and all of the drapes were pulled back.

She walked up the crumbling sidewalk and rapped on the door.

Irina answered, welcoming her warmly. “Hi, Annie, please come in.”

Annie rolled her scrapbook case in behind her and felt as if she had entered a jewelry box glowing with rich colors—fuchsia, crimson, purple, emerald green, ocean blue. Festive lights were strung across the room, and tables overflowed with colorful items. Papier-mâché sugar skulls were hanging from the center light fixture in the hallway.

“What's this?” Annie said, approaching one of the tables. In the center was a huge framed photograph of Esmeralda and Marina and surrounding them were lit candles and sugar skulls in a variety of forms—cookies, candy, cupcakes. They were so lovely, Annie could hardly believe that the detailed designs were on replicas of human skulls.

“Today is the Day of the Dead,” Irina said. “We remember our departed loved ones on this day.”

“Oh yes!” Annie said. How could she have forgotten? She used to have a friend in college who celebrated. “It's just gorgeous!”

“Well, you know how I love to make things nice and pretty,” Irina said.

A number of the women were already scrapbooking, so Annie claimed her spot next to Rosa. She smiled at her. “How are you?”

“Great,” she said. “I'm working on this book for my boss' daughter. It's kind of hard making a scrapbook for someone else. She just turned sixteen and they had this huge party. This is my gift to her.”

“Ah,” Annie said. “I love the way you cut that photo into a star shape. Did you do that by hand?”

Rosa laughed. “No. I used this.” She held up a template.

“Exactly what I would do. I'm going to get some food and then I'll be right back.” Annie didn't know anybody that could cut a photo into a perfect star like that, except maybe Sheila. Templates helped a lot.

As she turned toward the food table, she ran smack into Jorge.

“I'm sorry!” he said awkwardly.

“Jorge!” his aunt Irina said with a harsh edge to her voice that frightened even Annie. “What the hell are you doing with the pretty white lady?” She said it in Spanish. Evidently she didn't know that Annie also knew Spanish.

“It's okay,” Annie managed to say. “I ran into him.”

“So sorry, Annie,” he said, and with his head bent low he left the room.

“He's a pain in the ass,” Irina said.

“I think he's nice,” Annie said loud enough that she hoped Jorge heard. “He seems sweet.” It also seemed as if he was being picked on by his dear old auntie with the good gig in the big house. Had her concern for him at the station been completely fake?

Irina changed the subject. “Help yourself, Annie. We've got plenty of goodies here tonight.” She walked away and went to her spot at the table.

“She can be so hard on him,” Rosa whispered to Annie when she got back to the table with a plate of sugar cookies shaped like skulls and decorated lavishly with flowers and swirls and flourishes. “I feel sorry for him sometimes.”

“Rosa?” said Irina.

Rosa turned around. “Yes?”

“I've got your order of new paper right here,” said Irina.

“Do you sell scrapbooking materials?” Annie asked.

Irina nodded. “Yes, but only part time. I'm so busy taking care of Ms. Drummond.”

“Speaking of Ms. Drummond,” Annie said. “Where is she?”

“What do you mean?” Irina asked.

“I mean, where is she? This is her house, right? Why doesn't she come to the crops?”

Irina laughed. “Ms. Drummond is in her rooms upstairs. She allows me to have the crops, but she doesn't like to socialize. It's part of her illness.”

Annie tasted a cookie. It wasn't bad, but like most cookies with decorative icing, she found it a bit too sweet. “Sorry to hear that. Is it something like agoraphobia?”

“Yes, exactly. It runs in the family, I'm afraid.”

“There's no medication?”

Irina tilted her head. “It doesn't seem to help her. Like her mother, she is allergic to most of it.”

“Her moth—”Annie was interrupted by laughter at the end of the table, but things were clicking and zinging through her brain.

People who worked in others' homes knew all the family secrets, didn't they? It was an unspoken code that they never told—and yet Irina had just blurted out some personal information about Emma and Michelle as if it were nothing. Maybe it was. Maybe Annie was making too much of it. But that, coupled with the way she had just treated her nephew, left Annie with a sudden dislike of the woman.

She looked carefully at the woman next to her. Rosa seemed to like Irina, and she certainly knew her better than Annie did.

Then again, after all these years, Annie was learning to trust her intuition, no matter the cold, hard facts.

Beatrice loved waking up with Elizabeth between her and Jon in their big king size bed. She knew it wasn't in vogue to still share a bed with almost-five-year-olds, but when Elizabeth stayed with her, Beatrice left it up to her. She looked like a clichéd sleeping angel, curled between her and Jon.

Bea struggled to loosen herself from the blankets without waking anybody up. She planned on pumpkin pancakes this morning, one of her favorite breakfasts for the fall. It had become a tradition for Halloween morning.

She was so pleased that she would be taking Elizabeth trick or treating this year, then on to the fire hall for the community party. Vera and the others were all going to try to stop by the party, including Annie with her boys, so there would be no scrapbooking party tonight, but they were getting together later to do another Halloween ritual. Beatrice had thought about going—in truth she still thought about going. She might just leave Elizabeth with Jon and attend after all.

After breakfast, Annie called her.

“Are you ready for tonight?” Beatrice said. “Are the boys excited?”

“Yes and yes,” Annie said. “It's going to be a busy one. But listen, I have a question for you.”

“Yes?” Beatrice asked.

“What do you know about Michelle Drummond's housekeeper Irina and her nephew Jorge?”

“Nothing, really,” Beatrice said. “Why?”

“I don't know. I just had the weirdest feeling about them last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, I went to their crop, which was pretty cool. It had this Day of the Dead theme.”

“What kind of weird feeling did you have?”

“It's hard to explain, really,” Annie said, but she tried to articulate her feelings while Beatrice listened.

“You probably just stepped into the middle of a family thing. Kind of like I did with Emma.”

“What happened?” Annie asked.

Beatrice relayed the story of seeing Sheriff Bixby at Mountain View and then visiting with him later. On Annie's end of the phone, she heard a scuffling in the background, followed by a crash.

“I've got to go,” Annie said.

Beatrice laughed. “It sure sounds like it.” Those boys of Annie's were a handful.

 

 

Jon and Lizzie were outside raking leaves, and then they planned to carve a jack-o-lantern. Of all the joys Elizabeth had brought Beatrice, seeing her with Jon was a huge one.

Bea finished loading the dishwasher, wiped off the counters, and finally went upstairs to change. She'd been in her nightclothes all morning.

When she came back downstairs she was surprised to see Detective Bryant, Jon, and Lizzie in her living room. Lizzie loved Bryant and was sitting on his lap, chatting away about Halloween.

“You need to promise me that you will check out each piece of candy you get or let a grownup do it, before you eat it,” Bryant was saying to her.

“Okay, I promise,” she said solemnly.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Beatrice said.

“Beatrice,” Bryant said, looking up at her, then back at Lizzie. “I've got to talk to your grandmother alone, okay?”

Lizzie wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek before she and Jon went into the kitchen.

“What can I help you with?” Beatrice said as she sat down in her favorite armchair.

“I hear that you've been buddying up to the local sheriff,” Bryant said.

Bea didn't like his tone. Why did he have to be so sarcastic? “Well, that's not exactlty true. And I hear you've been buddying up to a woman who's half your age,” she retorted.

He reddened. “That's my personal life. Not your concern. Or any of your cronies'.”

“Cronies?” Bea's voice raised. She took a deep breath. “What do you want? Honestly, just get on with it.”

“I've been working pretty hard on the cases of the murdered sisters and trying to combine efforts with the sheriff.”

“And?”

“I wondered if you might have any leads for me.”

Beatrice sat back against her chair cushion. “Do you think I killed those women?”

“No no no! I just keep tabs on Bixby. I don't trust the man. The feeling is mutual.”

“He's a lawman, Bryant,” Beatrice said. “I'm surprised at you.”

“He's a sheriff. He works at the will of the people. A lot of politics goes into his job. A lot of winks and slaps on the back.”

Beatrice thought about that a moment. “Well, that's true. But that doesn't mean he's a bad guy.”

“No, I know that. He's just a different animal from me. So have you found anything about the cases from him?”

“No, we had a personal conversation. His wife's aunt, Emma Drummond, is my old friend and I ran into him the other day at Mountain View. We've just been discussing her and, um, well, family matters, if you must know.”

Bryant raised an eyebrow and nodded his head as if that somehow meant a lot to him. “That it?”

“I think so. Small talk, you know. Nothing else,” Bea said. “Sorry I can't help you. I wish I could. You know, we were able to send cards to the Martelino family and I thought I'd feel better after that. But I sure would feel a whole lot better if you'd find their killer.”

“We all would, Beatrice,” Bryant said. “Believe me, we all would feel much better if these cases were solved.”