A Crafty Christmas Read online

  He grinned and raised one eyebrow. “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “But I can tell you that you should check in with Steve Rogers.” She let him have the bag of goodies. “He can tell you whatever he wants. He’s a private citizen.”

  “Steve?” Beatrice’s blood started to race. What could Sheila’s husband know?

  Chapter 29

  “If I were a single man on a cruise ship and not scrapbooking, where would I be?” Vera said as she leaned back into her lounge chair. It was after lunch and they had all gathered at the pool, each one of them with outrageously expensive fruity alcoholic drinks in their hands.

  “You’d think most of them would be scrapbooking. After all, this is a scrapbooking cruise,” Sheila said. “There’s a man I keep seeing everywhere. He seems unattached. He’s been to every activity I’ve been to.”

  “The next time you see him, you should find out a bit about him,” Paige said, fixing her floppy hat on her head.

  “I most certainly will not,” Sheila said. “I’m here for the scrapbooking, not the sleuthing. The only thing I care about as far as all this is concerned is getting my scrapbook back. I’d like to see them bring the murderer to justice, but that’s not my business.”

  “You know, Sheila, you’re right. None of us should be involved, least of all you. You need to focus on making connections for your career. Leave the rest up to us,” Vera said.

  “Oh Lord,” Sheila said, and rolled her eyes. “Please leave well enough alone. Would you?”

  A beautiful young woman walked by in a white bikini. Eric perked up.

  “You know, if I were interested in women on this cruise, I think I’d be right here at the pool—or maybe at one of the lounges,” he said.

  “Ya don’t have to ask me twice,” Paige said. “I’m willing to circulate a bit and get out of the sun. I’ve had it. I want to get to the crop around five and I’ve got a couple hours to kill.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Randy said.

  “No,” she said. “You better stay here. I don’t need my son tagging along while I work my magic.” She winked before taking off down the deck.

  Randy sat back in his chair, astonished. “Well, I never!” he mocked.

  Vera laughed the loudest. “Stick around, Randy. Your mother is quite a character.”

  The ship jiggled around a bit. Vera grabbed on to Eric; the rest of them grabbed on to their chairs. Sheila closed her eyes for a moment. Her head still ached, though the drink seemed to be helping a bit. When she opened her eyes Vera was scanning the crowd.

  “What are you looking for?” Sheila asked.

  “I’m looking for single men,” Vera said. “I think I found one. The guy over by the diving board. You see him sitting there?”

  “Yes,” Sheila said. “What are you going to do?”

  “You just watch me,” Vera said.

  Sheila watched her old friend walk to the other side of the pool as Eric looked on, horrified. Vera, at the age of forty-four, was still a stunning woman, with her heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, and high cheekbones. As she walked by the man in question, she dropped her bag, with her things scattering everywhere. He rose from his chair to help. The next thing Vera knew, he was getting her a drink. She cozied up next to him, pulling her chair close to his.

  “I’m not sure I like this,” Eric said as he watched, his chest puffing out a bit.

  “Calm down,” Sheila said. “She’s prodding him.”

  “He doesn’t know that,” Eric said. “I don’t like how he’s looking at her.”

  “You don’t own her, doctor,” she snapped. “She can talk to whomever she wants to talk to.”

  Silence. Randy scootched around in his chair with discomfort.

  “I know you don’t like me, Sheila,” Eric said. “I’ve tried to ignore your snide remarks. Your eye rolling.”

  Sheila sat up as a sudden wash of embarrassment came over her.

  “I think Vera has enough room in her heart for both of us,” Eric said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Her face felt hot.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she said after a moment. “I’m not used to husbands and boyfriends hanging around. Mine doesn’t. Bill didn’t. There’s family time—then there’s girl time. I don’t know why you’re always hanging around.”

  His eyebrows knit.

  “I don’t mind having you around sometimes, but give Vera room to breathe. Allow her to have time with her friends,” Sheila said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m crazy about her,” he said, and glanced in Vera’s direction. “She’s never complained about my tagging along.... In fact I think she’s always invited me.”

  He looked crestfallen and Sheila wished she had never opened her mouth.

  “She probably has invited you,” Sheila said. “But you don’t need to accept every invite.”

  Randy turned the page of the magazine he was pretending to read.

  “You know I’m crazy about you, too,” she said, reaching out and patting his hand. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m probably being a selfish old coot. I love her, too. She’s my best friend.”

  Sheila’s cell phone buzzed. And then so did Eric’s.

  “We must be getting close to land,” he said.

  Sheila picked up her phone and read Annie’s text: Harold’s ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse, is on the passenger list. Your killer?

  How odd. She’d known a Sharon Milhouse in college. Now, she had been an odd bird. Surely it could not be the same person she went to school with. A wave of panic gripped her as a memory of Sharon hit her hard. Sharon had been madly in love with Steve. In fact, she had been Steve’s girlfriend when Sheila and he met. When they broke up, Sharon had tried to kill herself. Sheila had felt so sorry for her at the time, but later, when she and Steve started dating, she began to get death threats. They were never able to prove it, but everybody, including the local police, assumed it was Sharon.

  The Sharon Milhouse of her college days on board the Jezebel? That was too much of a coincidence. Must be another one. Must be. Oh, she’d find out. Yes, she would.

  “Are you okay?” Vera said as she approached the group. The boat rocked, making Randy spill his drink, just a little. He sat up to clean it. “You’re so pale.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Sheila said.

  “Is it your head?” Eric said.

  She waved her hand. “I just got a text from Annie.” She read it to them: “Harold’s ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse, is on the passenger list. Your killer?”

  “Sharon Milhouse?” Vera squealed.

  “What? Who is she?” Eric asked.

  Vera explained.

  “I’m sure it’s not the same one,” Randy said with assurance in his voice.

  “We need to find out. That woman was a hot mess,” Vera said.

  “What did you find out from the mysterious man from across the pool?” Sheila said.

  “His name is James Spangler,” Vera said. “He’s an accountant from Oklahoma. This is his third scrapbooking cruise. Hard-core scrapbooker. He seems like a nice man,” she said.

  “Don’t they all,” Randy said, and sighed.

  The shipped rocked harder, sending the pool water right over the edges of the deck. The lifeguards blew their whistles. “Everybody out of the pool!”

  Chapter 30

  Since moving to Cumberland Creek, Annie had been forced to consider her spirituality, looking deeper into her life for meaning, not simply the outer trappings of being Jewish. So tonight, when she lit the menorah and sang the prayers, she felt it. A hush came over her boys. Their eyes were solemn. It gave her surprising joy. Oh yes, this was worth not going on the cruise.

  After the dishes were done, Annie began to gather her scrapbooking things, but then sat at her table and wrote more in her new art journal instead. For the first time in many years, she felt truly inspired.

  It was odd;
she was a writer and in the midst of a book. But if she were honest with herself, that kind of writing had become a slog. It was a job. This, this opening up on the page through journaling and painting, it was inspiring and addictive. The next thing she knew, she was kissing the boys and Mike good night and heading off to meet DeeAnn at Sheila’s place, where the group met every Saturday.

  DeeAnn was standing out on the door stoop waiting for Annie.

  “I know Sheila said we should do this, but I feel kind of weird about being here without her,” DeeAnn said.

  Annie shrugged. “I get it. Do you still want to go in and give it a go?”

  “Well, now that you’re here . . . I guess it would be okay,” DeeAnn said.

  When they entered the basement it felt very different without Sheila’s music already playing, Vera’s humming, and Paige’s laughter. But it was more than that, really. Annie was jabbed once again with a pang of missing her friends.

  “They will be back soon,” DeeAnn said, and placed her things on the table.

  Annie did the same. Then she reached over and turned on the stereo. The sound of Justin Timberlake filled the room.

  “Love me some Justin,” DeeAnn said. “Hey, happy Hanukkah, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Annie said, sitting down. “Look, Sheila left us snacks.” Plastic bowls with lids sat on the table, filled with pretzels, chips, and nuts. “Wasn’t that sweet?”

  “I brought some cupcakes,” DeeAnn said, and placed her container on the table.

  “Ah, what kind?” Annie said.

  “Peanut butter with chocolate icing. A new recipe,” DeeAnn said.

  After they settled into their scrapbooking and eating, Annie got up and reached into the fridge for a beer.

  “So what do you hear from our friends?” DeeAnn said, looking up from her new scrapbook project. Her aunt had recently died and DeeAnn was working on a memory album that celebrated her mother’s life.

  “The last I heard they were making their way through the list of unattached men on the cruise,” Annie said, sitting back down at the table.

  “What? Why?”

  Annie explained their working theory.

  “I guess it’s a good place to start,” DeeAnn said.

  “It will keep them occupied, I suppose. But you know as well as I do that a woman could be the killer, especially if poison was used.”

  “I can see that. Harold’s wife might think she has cause if her marriage was broken up by this affair.”

  Annie pulled out her scrapbook and her new art journal.

  “But no man’s worth a prison term,” DeeAnn said.

  “What do you have there?”

  “I’ve been working on this book. It’s kind of a journal, I suppose,” Annie said. She slid it across the table.

  DeeAnn gasped. “Annie! It’s gorgeous.” She ran her fingers over the cover, where Annie had embossed a gold Star of David, which was surrounded by words scattered in every direction, providing a collage of sorts. It almost looked like graffiti. She opened the book to Annie’s painted page.

  “How did you do this?” DeeAnn asked.

  “I used the boys’ acrylics.”

  “There’s a whole movement of art journalists now. Did you know that?”

  “No. I was moved to do this. I love to scrapbook—but this seems like a more personal extension of it.”

  “It feels that way to me as well. I’ve never tried this. You’re so talented,” DeeAnn said.

  “Speaking of talent, Bea says you’re doing some baking for the bazaar,” Annie said, cutting out a photo of her grandmother’s menorah.

  “Yep. Anything to help Bea out. She’s taken on a lot with that bazaar. Nothing she can’t handle, but still.”

  Annie grinned, thinking of Beatrice and the bazaar. “Should be fun.”

  The two of them worked without chatting for a bit, listening to the music, pasting down photos and embellishments, and journaling.

  “Where do you think they are right now?” DeeAnn said.

  “Almost at Grand Caymen,” Annie replied.

  “I’ll feel a bit better with them on land for a day or two,” DeeAnn said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Annie said. “It’s been a very strange cruise. The murders. The storm. Communication fading in and out.” Annie took a deep breath and tried to settle her stomach. She tried hard not to think of all the dangerous possibilities on that cruise ship.

  Chapter 31

  Armed with a box of cookies, Beatrice rang the doorbell of Sheila and Steve’s home. It was a nice home; Steve had done well, as had Sheila. Beatrice had rarely been to the front door of their home. She usually entered at the basement door, just like the scrapbookers.

  When Steve opened the door, Beatrice was taken back. She’d not seen him for at least a year. But he’d aged. Drastically.

  “Why, hello, Beatrice,” he said, with a smile cracking cross his rugged, wrinkled face.

  “How do?” she replied.

  “C’mon in.”

  She entered their home. It was immaculate, as always. Sheila was not like her mother in that regard. Gerty hated housekeeping and it showed.

  “Can I take your coat?” Steve asked.

  Well, she hadn’t planned to stay that long, but it might be nice to visit with Steve a bit. She felt a sudden warmth toward him. Besides, she wanted to find out what Bryant had been talking about.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He took her coat and they sat together in the living room on the couch. The walls were decorated with photos and paintings done by their oldest daughter, Donna, a gifted artist.

  “What do I owe this visit to?” Steve said.

  “I figured you might be a bit lonely. And hungry,” Bea said, and handed him the box of Christmas cookies.

  “Oh,” he said, excitement in his eyes. “Sheila’s not doing any baking this year, so this is a treat.”

  “What do you hear from her?”

  “Communication has been sporadic at best,” he said, and scratched his chin. He needed a shave and a hot shower. “I’ve just gotten back from a trip.”

  “You take hiking trips in the mountains during winters?”

  He nodded. “This was the last one of the season.”

  Steve had his own outdoor guide company and led fishing, hunting, and hiking expeditions through the Blue Ridge.

  “That’s crazy,” Bea said.

  He laughed. “So they say. But it usually works out okay.”

  He opened the box of cookies and a look of pure joy washed over his face. Nothing like homemade cookies to bring a man to his knees.

  “So you know about Sheila falling and so on,” Beatrice said.

  “I want her to come home,” he replied, examining the cookies. “There’s been what, two murders now? I want her home.”

  “I hear ya. Listen, I ran into Detective Bryant. . . .”

  “Hmph,” he said, finally picking out a cookie. “You won’t believe what’s happened. I came home, exhausted, right? And there was this creepy postcard in the mailbox.”

  “What kind of a postcard?” Bea asked.

  “Someone had cut and pasted a note together. You know, like you’ve seen on TV or in the movies or something? It said ‘Die, die, die, scrapbook queen.’ And it has something on it. Looked like blood,” he said.

  Beatrice’s heart raced. “Why would someone do that?”

  “Good question. I wondered if she may have pissed someone off on the cruise, but Bryant wondered if she had any local enemies. There was no postmark on it. He thinks someone just shoved it in the box. I can’t think of one person who doesn’t love Sheila,” he said.

  Spoken like a man in love with his wife. Of course there may have been people who didn’t like her. But who? Beatrice felt her brows knitting. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  It was true that there was nothing to dislike about Sheila. Except of course for the scrapbooking craziness, which drove Beatrice nuts. It was a little over the top, with al
l the fancy embellishments and die cuts and so on. Memory keeping was one thing—hell, it was valid—but the way these scrapbookers went about it often rubbed Beatrice the wrong way.

  But Sheila was one of those women who was always nice and polite and went out of her way to please people. A definite people pleaser. Other than Beatrice herself, she couldn’t think of anybody who didn’t like that type of person.

  “Have you told Sheila about it?” she asked.

  “Bryant asked me not to,” he said, and then bit into a gingerbread cookie.

  “Hmph. I guess I can see that, but she might know who it is.” And so might the women in the basement, scrapbooking this very moment, if Beatrice calculated correctly.

  “I best be going, Steve. If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. Are you okay?”

  “I was a bit shook up,” he said, getting her coat and handing it to her. “But I’m all right now, I suppose. I am worried about Sheila. She’s on the high seas with a concussion and a killer. I ain’t happy about it.”

  “I hear ya. They will be home soon. Good night, Steve.”

  “Night,” he said, and then shut the door.

  Beatrice hightailed to the back of the house and peeked in the glass sliding doors. Yes, there was Annie and DeeAnn, both there with their scrapbooks in front of them. She opened the door.

  “Bea, what a nice surprise,” Annie said, starting to rise from her chair.

  “You might not think so once I tell you why I’m here,” Beatrice said, and then told them Steve’s story about the postcard.

  “I think we should tell Sheila,” DeeAnn said. “I’d want to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “But she’s having a rough time as it is,” Annie pointed out.

  “True,” DeeAnn said. “But I can’t think of one person who would do such a thing.”

  “Steve thought she may have stepped on someone’s toes on the ship, butting her nose into the murder investigation,” Beatrice said. “Bryant said it was unlikely.”

  “I agree. What are the chances?” Annie said. “I mean, who else on that ship even knows where Cumberland Creek is or even that it exists, let alone that Sheila lives here?”

  The room quieted.