Scrapbook of the Dead (8 page)

“Hey, Pamela,” Annie said as she walked in the door of Pamela's Pie Palace.

“Hey Annie,” Pamela called out from behind the counter.

The place was packed. She was having a grand reopening celebration since the place had been closed for several days. Annie was often impressed by Pamela's business acumen.

“Let's go into my office,” Pamela said, leading her through a door that led to some stairs. Annie followed her up the stairs to what looked like more of an apartment than an office.

“Sorry about the mess,” Pamela said, walking over to the futon and plopping down on it. A poster of Marilyn Monroe hung on the wall behind the futon. “Lord, that's quite a crowd down there! Take a seat. What can I do for you?”

DeeAnn always went on about how beautiful Pamela was.
And it was true,
Annie mused. But she was uncertain how pretty Pamela would be without her makeup. Likely Annie would never find out; she looked as though she'd stepped out of a poster herself.

“I'm here to ask a few questions about Marina,” Annie said.

Pamela's mouth curled. “I figured.”

“She'd been here two years?”

“Just about, well, closer to eighteen months, actually.”

“I'm curious as to how you found her. How you find the other internationals that work for you,” Annie said, trying to be as careful with her words as possible.

“I used to work with an agency,” Pamela said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “But then word got around. I have families working here, cousins, nephews. They come over and send for others. I haven't had to use the agency in a while. For the most part, I never have problems. Most of them are very good workers.”

“So you don't work with the agency at all anymore?”

“Not too much. Every once in awhile they contact me,” she said.

“Is that how you found Marina?”

Pamela tilted her head. “Actually, the agency came to me. Marina was known in Mexico City as a good baker. She had run into trouble of some kind . . . and she needed to get out.”

Zaps of intuition and curiosity were zooming through Annie. “What kind of trouble?”

Pamela made a gesture that Annie had seen Vera make a thousand times. She called it the “Delta Burke-Suzanne Sugarbaker” dismissive wave. “I never ask about such things. I find it's better if I don't know about my employees' personal lives. I don't want to get too involved. They move on from here pretty quickly most of the time. Marina was different. I was surprised she stayed as long as she did.”

“Why do they move on so quickly?”

Pamela sank back into a pillow. “They find better work, I suppose. It's typical in the restaurant business. I have some servers and bakers that have been with me for years. But for the most part, workers are here less than a year and move on.”

A wafting of some delicious pie baking downstairs filled the room. Cinnamon and apple? Mince?

“But Marina had been here eighteen months. Did you think she'd stay longer?” Annie said, reminding herself that her visit was not about pie.

“I thought she was a talented baker. She was on a different pay scale, than say, a dishwasher. I was hoping she'd stay.” An emotion played over Pamela's face. Sullen. Sad. “I don't understand why someone wanted to kill her. She was so sweet.”

“And her sister . . .” Annie said. “You mentioned that there was trouble in Mexico. Any way you can find out what that was?”

“I can make some inquiries, I suppose. But why? You don't think their trouble followed them here, do you?”

Annie shrugged. “I don't know what to think. Two sisters killed within twenty-four hours of one another. And they both lived over on Druid Lane in apartments that I didn't even know existed. Come to find out those places are gang infested.”

“Gang?”

“According to the cops,” Annie said.

“I'm sure you're mistaken,” Pamela said, her eyes widening.

“What makes you so certain?”

“First, we're talking about Cumberland Creek, right? Second, Marina would never be involved in such shenanigans, third—”

She was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Pamela yelled.

“Sorry to interrupt.” It was Randy. “I need your signature on a few things.” He handed her a pen and a clipboard. She read it over.

“Hey Annie,” he said, while Pamela was signing. “How are you?”

“Good. Yourself?”

“Fine,” he said.

Pamela handed him back the clipboard.

Annie glanced at her watch. Pamela had pushed back their meeting several times, which meant it was close to the time her boys would be getting home from school. She'd have to wrap this up and try to get another meeting scheduled. She explained to Pamela that she'd have to go. “I'm sorry. I hope we can meet again soon.”

“Hey, just call or e-mail me. It might be quicker,” Pamela said, leading Annie out of the room to the stairs.

When Annie walked into the dining room, she was surprised to see Vera, Sheila, Beatrice, and Jon sitting in a booth. She walked over to them after saying good-bye to Pamela. “Well, hello there. What are you all doing here?”

“Pie,” Beatrice said. “We're here for pie. Care to join us?”

“It's the grand reopening,” Vera said. “She's got some great specials today.”

“I've got to go. The boys will be home soon. Sorry,” Annie said.

“What are you doing here?” Vera asked.

“I was chatting with Pamela about Marina,” Annie replied in a quieter voice.

“Find out anything interesting?” Beatrice asked.

“Maybe. I'm not sure what to think,” Annie said.

“Did you get an address for me?” Beatrice asked, looking hopeful.

“Shoot, no. I forgot,” Annie said.

“I'll ask Pamela myself,” Beatrice said. “No worries.”

“If you want to get anything done, you've got to do it yourself” Annie heard Beatrice mutter as she walked away.

Beatrice savored the last bite of her chocolate custard pie. Heaven on earth. Creamy. Rich. Just the right texture. “Sin on a Plate” Pamela called it. She had come up with cute names for all her pies.

She had that one right.

Vera took a sip of her coffee and placed the cup back in the saucer. “Delicious. Even her coffee is the best.”

“How was your Key-Lime Kiss pie?” Beatrice asked.

“Extraordinary,” Vera replied.

Beatrice sat back and watched the crowded scene before her. A small group of people were waiting at the cash register to pay their bills. Servers skirted in and out between people and aisles of tables. Not one of the servers appeared to be foreign. Hadn't Randy said they were mostly foreigners? Wait. He must have been talking about the kitchen staff.

Pamela was chitchatting with folks at a table in the corner. She moved from table to table asking how her customers were enjoying their pie. Good business move. She was more like a hostess than an owner who sat on high ordering people around. It made you feel good for paying $3.50 for a slice of pie. But not today—it was half-off today, it being a special grand-reopening.

Sheila was quieter than usual. She seemed tired. But it was more than that really; she seemed worn down. Like the reality of life was suddenly too much for her. She did have a lot on her plate.

“How was your pie?” Beatrice asked her.

“The Cherry Divine was divine,” Sheila said and smiled. “Love that chocolate layer between the cherries and the crust. Genius.”

“I agree that this place has extraordinary pie,” Jon said.

“Good to hear that,” Pamela said as she approached their table. “Coming from a Frenchman, that's a big compliment.”

“Everything was very good, of course,” Vera said.

“Can I ask you a question?” Beatrice began. “I'd like to send my condolences to Marina's family.”

The smile vanished from Pamela's face.

“Would you happen to know how I can reach them?” Beatrice continued.

Pamela pasted on a fake smile.

It was as if I'd asked her to kill someone for me. I only want Marina's family's address
, thought Beatrice.

“
I'm sorry, Ms. Matthews. I don't have that kind of information. She came through an agency.”

“What agency? Maybe they have her address?”

Another customer came by the group and congratulated Pamela on the best pumpkin pie he'd ever eaten.

Pamela turned back to Beatrice. “I'm sorry. What was your question?”

“What's the name of the agency Marina came through?” Beatrice was getting miffed.
A simple question demands a simple answer. Why can nobody give me this woman's family's address?

“Hathaway Transatlantic Employment Agency,” Pamela finally said. “Good luck. They are not quite easy to deal with.”

“Thanks for the warning. I'll manage,” Beatrice replied.
How odd.
She was getting the strangest vibes from Pamela.
What is the problem?

As if sensing Bea's thoughts, Pamela leaned over the table. “Ms. Matthews, I hate talking about it. It's very upsetting to me. She was the sweetest person I'd ever met.” She blinked.

Beatrice felt an immediate pang of embarrassment. Of course, that was it. Pamela was grieving. She apparently thought very highly of the young woman. Perhaps Marina was more than an employee.

“I'm sorry,” Beatrice said. “I didn't realize you were so close.”

Jon elbowed her gently.

“Well, I would not say close,” Pamela said. “But there was something about her that made me feel sort of protective. And I'd feel awful if anybody I knew met the end that she did.”

“Of course,” Sheila said. “It's a human reaction. No matter who the person.”

Pamela stood up straighter. “Right.” There was a flash of emotion in Pamela's eyes—something beneath the carefully applied eyeliner, blue eye shadow, and mascara.

Beatrice couldn't say for sure what it was. Regret? Sadness? Fear?

As Pamela turned to leave, Beatrice turned to Jon. “What are you elbowing me for, you old coot?”

“Coot? What is this word?” he shot back at her.

She waved him off. “Look it up.”

DeeAnn was a bit miffed that everybody went to Pamela's grand reopening and she was stuck on the couch. The medicine didn't seem to improve her pain for very long anymore so she was taking the maximum dose. Tomorrow, she was off for X-rays and more tests.

She suddenly heard a bunch of noise at her door and then the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” she called.

The door swung open. It was Beatrice, Vera, and Jon.

“Hello there,” Beatrice said. “Brought you some pie.”

“How nice of you! What kind did you get me?”

“Sin on a Plate,” Vera said. “You look like you could use it. Lord, woman, have you even brushed your hair this morning?”

DeeAnn ran her fingers through her hair. She really couldn't remember. Had she? “What's the point? I'm not going anywhere. Stuck here on this couch.”

“Oh my,” Beatrice said. “Are we having a pity party?”

“Pity party?” Vera exclaimed. “I haven't heard that term in a long time. Well, not since I was a kid and you used to ask me the same thing.”

Beatrice waved her off and spoke to DeeAnn. “I'm going to get you a real fork to eat that with. No point eating with a plastic fork.”

“It's okay,” DeeAnn said. “I don't mind.”

“Suit yourself.” Bea sat down.

“How are you feeling, dear?” Jon asked with concern in his voice.

Such a nice man. What did he see in Beatrice?
thought DeeAnn. “I'm going to see the doc tomorrow. I feel about the same, actually.”

“Are the pills helping?” Vera asked.

DeeAnn took a bite of her pie and nearly swooned, it was so good. She nodded, chewed, and swallowed her bite. “But not very long. I have to keep taking more. I think I'm taking the maximum dose now.”

Vera picked up the pill bottle. “You're out.”

“Jacob's on his way with more,” DeeAnn replied. “How was the Pie Palace?”

“Big crowd,” Jon said.

Beatrice shot him a look of rebuke and he shrugged in return.

“It was good,” Vera said. “Annie was there chatting with Pamela upstairs for a bit . . . about Marina.”

“Really? What did she find out?” DeeAnn asked.

“Well, we've gotten the name of the agency she came from,” Beatrice said. “I hope they have an address for the girls' parents.”

DeeAnn swallowed another bite of pie. Suddenly, she was weary, but she wanted to know more. “What's the name of the agency?”

“Hathaway Transatlantic Employment,” Vera answered.

“I used to get brochures in the mail from them,” DeeAnn said. “I know who they are.”

“Really?” Beatrice asked. “What do you know about them? Pamela said they were difficult.”

“I don't know anything,” DeeAnn said. “I pitched their stuff in the trash. My files are stashed with American citizens who need work. I don't need the hassle.”

“Now, DeeAnn—” Vera began and looked uncomfortably at Jon.

“I've got nothing against foreigners, of course,” DeeAnn said. “I'd hire some if they came to me looking for a job and I needed someone. But to go through an expensive agency? It just always seemed strange to me.”

The room was silent.

“You know it
is
very strange,” Jon said. “You say there are plenty of people here looking for work. Why would Pamela hire only people from overseas?”

“Who knows why Pamela does what she does,” DeeAnn said. “Money has never been an issue for her, right?”

“Oh no,” Beatrice cackled. “Not at all. She went from her rich daddy to her rich husband.”

“Very difficult for me to relate to,” DeeAnn said. “I've had to struggle and work hard for everything I have, including the bakery. I can't do fancy events and mark my goods down to reel people in.” Her heart began to race as she thought about the unfairness of all of it.
How can I compete with people like Pamela?

“Now hold on,” Vera said. “What you're saying is true. But she's always been good to you. She's never said a bad thing about you or the bakery. And she's so filthy rich I've often wondered why she bothers working. She could be sitting around all day or doing lunch with the ladies, or whatever rich women do. Instead, she works.”

“Well,” DeeAnn said after a moment. “I guess you told me.”

Vera laughed.

“We've got to get going,” Beatrice said. “Is there anything we can get for you? More books?”

“No, I haven't finished the ones you already gave me,” DeeAnn said. “Jacob will be home soon. Don't worry about me.” Her back was beginning to jab at her again. Damn, she wished he'd hurry home.

After everybody left, she opened her new laptop to the scrapbooking program that Karen had loaded for her and began to place graduation photos onto a virtual page with virtual paper she had selected.

Karen had graduated top of her class in nursing school. DeeAnn had just started to journal a little bit about it—Karen in her cap and gown. She loved thinking about her and her sister, a year behind in nursing school. She was thinking about studying midwifery in England.
England
, for God's sakes! Fear tore through DeeAnn's body. What if she went to England and something happened to her, like it did with Marina and Esmeralda? How would she know? Suddenly, Beatrice's busybody-ness—finding the girls' family—made sense. It wouldn't take away their pain and confusion, but it might provide some comfort.

DeeAnn sifted through the memories of Hathaway Transatlantic. Things were pretty fuzzy. It was the damn drugs. She could not think clearly; she was still in pain. Why did she have to choose between pain and more pills? Couldn't anybody help her?