Scrapbook of the Dead (24 page)

“Well, how about that?” Emma said when Beatrice explained the Irina situation to her. “You mean she was eventually planning to kill Michelle so that she could have everything when I go?”

Beatrice nodded. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

They were in Emma's small room looking out of her window at the view of the mountains. Most of the leaves were gone and the black trees stood out against the bright sky.

“I trusted her,” Emma said, looking crestfallen. The light played across her papery, wrinkled skin.

“It's awful what money can do to people,” Beatrice said. “But somehow Marina and Esmeralda found out about her plot to kill Michelle.”

“How?”

“Jorge told us they found her filling pill capsules with some kind of poison. She tried to shrug it off, but Marina knew about the change in your will because Irina told her about it,” Bea said.

“So she killed Marina because she knew too much,” Emma said, her face fallen, head nodding back and forth slowly.

“And Esmeralda, too, just in case Marina had told her,” Beatrice said.

The two of them sat a few minutes and listened to some old bluegrass music playing over the radio. Sounds of the banjo filled the room as they looked out the window and then fussed over their tea.

“What about that poor man? I saw his name in the paper for assaulting that reporter,” Emma eventually asked.

“Jorge is out of jail,” Beatrice said. “He wasn't really planning to attack Annie that night. He was trying to warn her.”

“He knew, then?”

“He strongly suspected. But he was afraid of Irina,” Beatrice said. “Still, he was keeping an eye on her, evidently, and trying to warn Annie. But she let him have it before he could explain. She's tough.”

Beatrice was thrilled that Annie seemed to have gotten her spark back. After the incident at Elsie's B and B, Beatrice hadn't been sure she ever would. Bea did feel sorry for Jorge—just a bit. After all, what did he think he was doing approaching a woman late on Halloween night while dressed in a clown costume?

“How on earth did the woman get Marina's body into the freezer at the Pie Palace?” Emma asked. “And why?”

“Jorge says that Irina knew Marina was working alone one night and took advantage of it, attacked and killed her, then panicked and shoved her tiny body into the freezer—with a scrapbooking page. It's so warped.”

“Warped is right,” Emma said.

“Well, at least Michelle is okay. Irina never did get to poison her,” Beatrice said. “I was over there yesterday and the new caretaker seems nice. She also said that they'll be trying some new medicine on Michelle. She seemed hopeful that Michelle could tolerate it. Maybe you would, too.”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm comfortable here. I'm not sure my body can take another shock.” Emma paused. “Funny, when I was young, I burned to see the world. Now, I just want peace. And I think I've found it here in my little apartment.”

A feeling of peace fell over Beatrice, as well. Emma was happy. After all these years. All it took was a dead husband and a pretty little apartment.

“Emma, what did you mean when you said you killed Paul?” Beatrice asked. “Did you intentionally let him die when he had the heart attack? Surely not.”

Emma's eyes filled with tears. “I did, Bea. It was my only way out.”

 

 

As Beatrice had dinner with her own husband, she relayed the conversation to him.

Jon drank from his wineglass before speaking. “After her horrible life with her husband it sounds like she's finally content, I know the feeling.” He reached out and grasped Bea's hand for a moment.

“Me, too,” said Beatrice, as she spread more butter onto her bread. Butter made everything better.

“It's so good to know that the police have found their killer,” Jon said. “It surprises me when I hear about female killers.”

“I don't know why. Women are every bit as capable of murder as men,” Beatrice said, thinking of Emma. “You ought to know that by now.”

Jon nodded. “Yes. But I like to think of them as the gentler sex.”

Beatrice grunted. “Whatever.” She resisted rolling her eyes.

 

 

Jon snoozed on the couch while Beatrice looked over the news on the computer. It was true. Jorge had been released.
Good.
She read how Irina had worked for the Drummond family for six years.
Six years!
The article went on to say that she had a record in Mexico, which Hathaway Transatlantic had overlooked when placing her.
Humph.

“Hathaway!” Beatrice muttered with vehemence.

“What?” Jon said, sitting up, looking dazed. And cute. Cute as could be.

Beatrice made her way over to the couch and snuggled next to him. “Nothing, Jon. Relax. Go back to sleep.”

He slid his arm around her and she relaxed into the warmth of his touch.

It was another Saturday night crop, just like any other. Except it really wasn't.

Annie looked like hell—pale and thinner than usual. Cookie sat quietly and stared off into space. Vera was busily working on her Halloween scrapbook. Paige and Randy were chattering about some family reunion and suddenly everything stopped when Sheila made the announcement that she had quit her dream job. Just like that.

“Are you certain?” Vera asked.

“Absolutely,” Sheila said. “I'll be freelancing from home to finish up some projects I've been working on. Then I'm done. It was too much for me.”

“That's too bad,” Annie said. “I know how much it meant to you.”

“Well, what about you?” Sheila said.

“What do you mean?” Annie said.

“You're doing the same thing,” Sheila said. “Giving up a job you love for your family.”

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” Vera said.

“I've been a reporter for twenty-five years,” Annie said as she sorted through some photos. “It's not the same thing at all. Um . . . or maybe it is. I don't know. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“We all do what we have to do,” Paige said. “Look at me. I'm still teaching and I wanted to retire years ago.” She shrugged.

“Besides,” Sheila said. “I'm not really giving it up. I'll be freelancing a good long while. I just can't continue going like I have been. Once I get Donna on the right track with her health, it should be fine. It's just bad timing.”

“I think it sucks,” DeeAnn said. “Why doesn't Steve help you out more with Donna? She's his kid, too.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Now, DeeAnn, you know Steve helps where he can. His job is important. He still makes more money than I do and it takes him away from home a lot,” Sheila said. “And to tell you the truth, I want to be the one taking care of her. Call me old-fashioned or whatever you want.”

“I totally get that,” Vera said.

Murmurs of agreement came from the others around the table.

“Just don't forget to take care of yourself,” Cookie said.

“I'm trying,” Sheila said. “Quitting my job is the first step.”

“But didn't you say how it nourished you?” DeeAnn asked.

Annie looked up from what she was doing.

“Yes,” Sheila said after a moment. “And I'll always have the confidence the job gave me. But it's not the job, but the actual work that nourished me. The art. I'll have to think of a better way. Right now, I've been given the go-ahead from my boss to come up with a line of paper dolls, at a much slower pace than what I've been doing. Donna and I are going to do it together.”

“How fantastic,” DeeAnn said.

Murmurs of agreement swirled around the table again.

DeeAnn bit into a lemon cupcake. She wasn't a big fan of lemon, but the cupcake was good and refreshing.

“No sugar,” Cookie said. “Can you believe it? I found the recipe in a book at the library. I really like them. What do you think?”

“I think it'sh good,” DeeAnn said. “I can't believe there'sh no sugar in it. But maybe that'sh why I like it so much. I don't usually like lemon.”

“You're slurring your words again,” Paige said.

“Well, I'm off my medicine, so it must be the booze,” DeeAnn said. “Maybe I shouldn't have had that third glass of wine.” She giggled. “Damn smart, independent daughters made me stop taking those pain pills. And I gotta tell you, they were right. I might have been on my way to addiction.” She looked around the table at her friends.

Sheila had gone back to the paper she was meticulously cutting out with tiny scissors. Annie and Vera were comparing their Halloween books. They appeared to be zipping right through those scrapbooks. Maybe doing a premade scrapbook was a good idea. DeeAnn had never tried it. In fact, she thought it was kind of cheating. But she was slowly changing her mind—about a lot of things. She'd never imagined liking a vegan anything, nor a sugarless cupcake. Now that she was down two sizes, she might embrace a healthier lifestyle. It was all good, no matter what her overprotective daughters thought.

“I've been thinking about Jorge,” Cookie said. “I hope he's okay. I'm guessing Irina was abusive to him.”

“You're right,” Annie said. “She was. He was scared of her. And it turns out that she was abusing Michelle Drummond, too.”

“What?” DeeAnn said. “How awful! To take advantage of a sick woman like that!”

“They are trying to get her medicine squared away,” Annie said. “It appears she has a bunch. They're not sure how many doctors have given her which medicine and so on. It's a mess. She doesn't have to be on that many meds. Once they get her off of everything, she might turn out to be the healthiest person in Cumberland Creek.”

“I doubt that,” Vera said. “It would be nice, of course. But Sheila and I went to school with her and she's always had problems.”

“But nowadays medicine is so much better,” Sheila said. “Let's hope she can leave her house soon.”

“They've come a long way with medicine,” DeeAnn agreed. “I mean two weeks ago, I was still flat on my back. And now here I am.”

Annie's head hurt. She reached in her bag for another ibuprofen. She sighed. It could have been worse. Irina could have shot her. She could be dead. Years ago that same thought had occurred to her one too many times, which is one of the reasons she and Mike had moved to Cumberland Creek.

Annie pasted the final photo of her boys onto the page. She had already put it in a pumpkin-shaped frame and trimmed the corners off. She thought about the fear she saw in her boys' eyes when she lay in the hospital room and she knew she had made the right choice to quit her job.

“How are you feeling, Annie?” Randy asked after he closed his own scrapbook.

“Better. I filed my story and I am officially done.”

Randy grinned at her. “Good for you.”

“Did they ever figure out who slashed your tire?” Sheila asked.

“It was Jorge,” Annie said. “He was coerced into it by Irina. It had nothing to do with the Mendez guy. He's just a bit overprotective, very macho, but probably harmless.”

“Humph. That's what they all say,” Randy said, making the women laugh.

“What are you going to do now?” Vera asked when the laughter died down.

Annie shrugged. “I don't know.” In some strange way that felt good. It felt good to not have her life planned to the nth degree. She was looking forward to spending more time with the boys and her husband, reading, watching some old movies, spending time with her friends—and writing. Writing fed her—not just stringing words and facts together as a journalist.

The doorbell rang, interrupting Annie from her reverie. Sheila rose from the table. “We're all here. I don't know who this could be,” she muttered.

Annie heard the sliding glass door open.

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

Annie turned to see Pamela and Jorge standing there with pies in their arms. Pamela held a bottle of something under an arm.

“I've heard so much about this crop,” Pamela said with a flourish that only she could manage. “Just look at you all.”

Jorge stood sheepishly beside her and looked Annie's way. “This is for you, Annie. I made it myself.” He spoke quietly with a slight accent. He handed her a pie box with a card on top of it. “Thank you for everything and I just wanted to say . . . sorry about Irina.”

Annie's heart nearly leaped out of her chest. “Jorge, you don't need to apologize for her.” She took the pie and card from him. She knew what kind of pie it was without even looking inside the box. Everybody knew how she adored that chocolate-cherry pie. “Thanks so much for the pie.”

“What do you have there?” DeeAnn said to Pamela.

“Chocolate and banana cream.” Pamela walked over to the counter where all the food was set out and slid her box next to some chocolate chip cookies. “Who wants a slice?”

As Pamela doled out the slices of pie, the crop took on even more of a party atmosphere. Annie looked around at her friends, both old and new. Pamela was her usual vision of perfection in her fitted red dress and rockabilly style. Jorge was quiet, yet appeared more centered than the other times she had seen him, as he spoke with Randy off to the side of the room. Pamela handed out glasses of champagne, which Annie happily helped her with.

“I want to make a toast to you all,” Pamela said and then cleared her throat. “I've enjoyed getting to know each one of you over the years. I thank you for your patronage and your friendship.

“Jorge and I want to thank Annie, in particular, for her dogged determination.” Pamela took a deep breath. “And for putting her life on the line. We are so glad you're okay. In fact”—she looked directly at Annie with a tear in the corner of her eye—“if it wasn't for you, Annie, I'm not certain either one of us would still be alive. Irina was on a path of destruction. We could have been next. You stopped her. Thank you.” She lifted her glass.

Annie felt her face flush.

“Hear, hear,” DeeAnn said and lifted her glass.

“To Annie!” Randy said, as he and Jorge joined the group and they all lifted their glasses to her.

Tears pricked at Annie's eyes. She was speechless. She had never been thanked like that before. “I'm, ah, not sure what to say.” She smiled, willing the tears away.

Cookie put her hand on Annie's shoulder and she suddenly felt a bit more at ease.

“You don't have to say anything. Just soak it in.” The light in Cookie's green eyes was back.

Annie took in the rest of the people in the room and felt a surge of warmth. For years, she had searched for good friends and now she had them. DeeAnn, skinnier, and on the path to wellness; Sheila, the artist-scrapbooker, still finding her way, but keeping her family at the center of her life; Paige, whole and happy now that her son was home; Randy, who had become so dear to Annie and Vera, the dancer and maybe-chocolatier, living with the most ineligible bachelor in Cumberland Creek. It was quite a group.

They were all scrapbookers, gathering weekly to share photos, techniques, and stories about their lives and families. It created a bond as they laughed, shared, and ate together. Who knew when she'd accepted Vera's invite five years ago, that she would still be there, pressing memories into albums? As she looked around the table at the women surrounding her, toasting her, she looked deep into her own heart and knew their stories and connections weren't just about scrapbooking. The hobby had brought them together, but it was the friendship that kept them going strong.

Annie didn't know what came next in her life. She'd shared some of her best moments with her scrapbooking friends. She had also gone through hell with them. They'd seen each other through cheating husbands and divorce, hard financial times, health problems, and murder investigations. But they were all still there. Thanks to their friendship, Annie wasn't too concerned about the next phase of her life. Lifted, strengthened, and loved, she was ready to move forward.