Scrapbook of the Dead (20 page)

Karen and Tracy were on to DeeAnn. They had enough medical background to know that she had way too many pills.

“What have you done, Mom?” Tracy said. “How did you get so many pills?”

DeeAnn stood and crossed her arms. “I don't need to answer to you. For God's sake, you're my daughter.”

“Mom. You went to another doctor, didn't you?” Karen picked up the bottles and looked them over. “Yep. That's what you did.”

The room went silent as DeeAnn's daughters took her in.

DeeAnn didn't back down. “Look. I'm in a lot of pain. Doctor Flathers doesn't seem to get it. I'm a big woman. Those little ole painkillers he gives me are just not helping.”

“What did he say about surgery?” Tracy said.

“He said he'd like to wait awhile and see if the disk slips back into place. In the meantime, he gave me a shot. Didn't do any damn good. I have a life, you know? I've got to get back to the shop. There's your dad, the house, my friends. I can't function when I'm in pain.”

“Mama, pain is a funny thing,” Tracy said. “You know they've done all kinds of studies about it. Sometimes people get, I don't know, used to their pain, but still take pills to numb it, instead of trying to develop a tolerance. Are you okay?”

“What the hell do you mean?” DeeAnn said. “I'm not okay. I'm in pain! I keep telling you that.”

“That's not what she means, Mom. She means is everything okay . . . in your life?” Karen said.

DeeAnn was floored. Of course everything was okay in her life. Why did her daughters think it wasn't? She turned and walked out of the kitchen to plop herself on the couch. She didn't want to talk with her daughters about her life. What was there to talk about? It was the same as it ever was.

“Mom?” Karen followed her in the room. She was trailed by her sister. “I know you think of us as little girls. But look at us. We're grown women. We're educated. And we love you. We think you might have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” DeeAnn said.

“With the pills, Ma. The doctor said there's no reason you should be in such horrible pain,” Tracy said.

“What the hell does he know? I'm going to get another opinion,” DeeAnn snapped.

“Okay,” Karen said. “You do that. And I'll go with you.” She sat down on the couch next to her.

DeeAnn was confused—did her daughters think she was addicted to painkillers? Or addicted to pain? Or both? Was it all in her mind? Was she in pain? She sighed—of course she was in pain; it wasn't in her mind. She knew that much. Why didn't they? They didn't know how it pinched at her and sent jags of pain through her lower half.

“I'd have thought that two nurses would be a bit more sympathetic,” DeeAnn said. “I'm a little surprised.”

“I
am
sympathetic,” Karen said, pushing her hair back behind her ears. “I also know how easily people get addicted to these things. You haven't been yourself.”

DeeAnn felt something blooming in her chest. Was it fear? Was she addicted? “I'm not sure I know what you mean. I'm not addicted to anything. I'm as much myself as I ever was. I'm just getting older. I was even thinking about retiring before this happened.”

“Retiring? You? I can't see that,” Tracy said.

“Well, baking is hard work. Physical. And my back has been bothering me for quite some time,” DeeAnn said.

“What would you do with yourself?” Karen asked.

“What does anybody do with themselves when they retire?” DeeAnn sighed. “I thought, I don't know, I'd hang around with my daughters and maybe someday be a grandma.”

“Don't look at me,” Karen said. “I'm not interested in kids right now.”

“But you and Adam?” Tracy asked.

Karen groaned. “Look. I keep telling you people, I like him. But I'm not looking for marriage. If I were, I think he'd be a great husband and father.”

DeeAnn sat forward.

“But I'm not. We're just having fun right now. So don't go making wedding plans, Mom.”

“Oh, I know things are different now,” DeeAnn said. “Women have a lot more options. And I think it's great. I raised you both to be strong, independent women.” Her voice cracked. “And that's exactly what I've got.”

“The police took Jorge this morning,” Randy whispered into the phone. “Came here and got him early, like at five-thirty.”

“What? Why?” Annie said.

“I'm not sure, but I think someone saw him with one of the sisters before—”

“Maybe that's who Cookie saw. She was at the station last night giving them a description,” Annie said.

“Cookie? I wouldn't trust her memory.”

“Memory is an odd thing. She suddenly remembered seeing Marina sitting with a man on the front porch of the Drummond house,” Annie said.

“Just because they were sitting there doesn't mean he killed her. He's odd, but I don't think he'd hurt a fly.”

Where had Annie heard that before? People who killed were often everyday sorts that momentarily lost it. Was Jorge a killer? She took a deep breath and calmed herself. Randy was right. Just because Marina had been seen with Jorge before her death didn't mean he'd killed her. The police must just be questioning him.

“I guess I should go down to the station. Who picked him up, Bryant or Sheriff Bixby?” asked Annie.

“Bryant.”

“Shoot, I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Randy laughed. “I've got to get back to work.”

 

 

Annie finished loading the dishwasher and then drove to the station, shifting through the cases in her mind yet again. What did the police know? Two sisters were dead. Both of them had scrapbooking pages on their bodies, documenting the same day.

The sisters weren't involved in any of the assorted gang activities in Cumberland Creek, but their deaths were not accidental or coincidental. Someone was making a statement. A cry for help?

That profile might fit Jorge, despite what Randy thought. Jorge didn't seem quite together—maybe he was disturbed.

And then there was Hathaway
Transatlantic
. Could they have embroiled the sisters in something that got them killed? But what? That didn't make much sense, even though Annie saw them for what they were—a shade away from human trafficking. But she couldn't imagine what would involve them in the murder of women in small-town Cumberland Creek. What had the sisters known? What had they had that was worth killing them for?

As she pulled into the police station parking lot, Pamela's cherry red 1957 Chevy roared in front of her. And what about Pamela? Did Pamela have it in her to kill?

Annie grimaced at the thought. Women did kill, she reminded herself. But Pamela seemed genuinely distraught over the murder of Marina. Of course, it could be an act, but what would Pamela's motive be? Why would she kill her own employees? That didn't make sense.

What did make sense was that Pamela was at the police station. Likely there to help Jorge, who was probably frightened beyond belief. He seemed very little-boy-like.

Annie opened the door to a crowded waiting area. There sat Pamela with Irina, Jorge's aunt. They looked up at Annie. Pamela looked worried, but Irina looked haunted, stricken.

“Any ideas you have about writing a story about Jorge, you can just forget it,” said Pamela.

“I'm just here to see what's happening,” Annie said. “It's part of the story I'm already working on. If he's innocent, there's no reason I need to write about this.”

Pamela seemed awfully protective of Jorge. Was she hiding something?

“Of course, he's innocent,” Irina said. “Of course he is.” She was adamant. Her eyes flared with anger.

Annie left to find the bathroom, then slipped down the hall to have a look around. The doors were all closed. A uniformed officer passed by her and she turned to go back to the waiting area.

At the corner she heard voices so she stopped and listened. She peeked around the corner and saw Bryant standing in the waiting area, shaking Pamela's hand, then Irina's. Then he started walking down the hallway toward her.

“What are you doing here?” he said when he approached her.

“I was in the ladies' room. You know what goes on in there, right?”

Bryant placed his hands on his hips. “That's not what I meant, Annie. Come to my office please.”

“Yeah, I don't know. I'm in kind of a hurry. Maybe for a few minutes.” She followed him down the snaking gray hallway.

After they were situated, he looked at her and said, “Spill.”

“I was just here checking on Jorge. Someone said you brought him in.” Why did she feel like she was lying, when she was telling the truth?

“We just brought him in to see if he knew anything about the murders or the sisters. He's not a suspect,” Bryant said. “You could have just asked me. It's really not a big deal.”

“How close are you to solving this case?”

“Very.”

“Can you give me any details?”

“Of course not.”

“But you can say that Jorge is not a suspect.”

“Not at this point.”

“Interesting that his aunt and employer both came in so quickly,” Annie said, gauging Bryant's reaction carefully.

He lifted one eyebrow. “I guess they care about him or something.”

“Was he dating Marina?” Annie hated to ask, but she had to.

He guffawed. “No. He wanted to, but nothing came of it.”

“I'm assuming he's the man Cookie saw with her at the Drummond place?” Annie asked.

Bryant nodded.

“What were they doing together, then?”

“I think there was a scrapbooking crop there that night and they had stepped outside for some air. It was a Friday night.”

“What was Cookie doing there?” Annie wondered out loud.

Adam tensed and moved around in his seat. “Ask her. She's your friend, isn't she?”

“I will,” Annie said.

“Have you been back to the apartments?” Bryant asked.

“Not since the day I saw you there. I haven't seen any evidence of gangs, Adam.”

“What do you think a gang looks like?” he asked in a patronizing tone.

“Not like the group of middle-aged guys standing around in the parking lot,” Annie answered quickly.

“You need to adjust your vision. Don't trust just anybody.”

“I don't. But the only time I've felt threatened over there is by the manager of the place. And I haven't seen him since that day at the grocery store.”

Bryant looked at her with his head tilted and eyebrows hitched. “Be careful, Annie. Gang members come in all shapes, ages, sizes . . . and genders.”

“Were the sisters involved with a gang?” she asked again. She was certain she'd asked that question a million times or more.

“Not that I know of.”

“Their deaths seem linked and personal and, well, I have to say it's just not making any sense to me. I can't figure out what the motive would be for killing two young women who mostly kept to themselves, worked hard, liked to get together with friends and scrapbook. I just don't know!” She flung her arms out.

“Most murders are linked to drugs these days,” Bryant said. “Once you rule that out, it gets murkier.”

His office door opened. A uniformed officer entered the room and handed him a file.

“Thanks,” Bryant said, accepting the file.

“So are you saying their deaths had nothing to do with drugs?” Annie asked as the officer left the room.

“I think we can safely rule that out,” Bryant replied.

“The other motive for murder is passion,” Annie said almost to herself. “Money. Secrets they may have stumbled on.”

Adam looked up from his files quickly, blinked, then looked away.

Something caught in Annie's chest. The young women had stumbled upon someone's secret. Bryant must be on the trail of that secret. And it was a big one. The momentary look in his eyes, the lifting of his chin at that precise moment told her that.

“Annie, leave the sleuthing up to us, and I promise we'll let you know once we find out something.”

If only she could believe that. If she left it up to him, she'd never get the story.

“Can I come in?” Sheriff Bixby asked Beatrice.

When she had opened the door, Bea was so shocked to see him that she had forgotten her manners. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sheriff. Please come in.” She led him into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the couch.

As he sat, he let out a huge sigh. “Now, Ms. Matthews, I'm a little concerned about Emma.”

“What? Why?” she said, sitting down next to him.

“I'm going to be straight with you,” Sheriff Bixby said. “I hate to get you involved in family business, but it concerned me that she thought I was threatening her.”

Beatrice sat back against the cushion. “It concerned me, too.”

“I was talking with her about her will, you see. Now, it's not what you're thinking. I can assure you.”

“Humph.”

“My wife and I have never been in her will, and we are fine with that. We do okay, Ms. Matthews. We're not too concerned about that old house and property of hers. Besides which, it's kind of a delicate matter. I hated to bring it up to her.”

“I imagine.”

“For years, the place was to be left to Michelle.”

“As it should be,” Beatrice chimed in.

“Indeed,” the sheriff said. “I agree.”

“So what's the problem?”

“Recently Emma's will was changed.”

“You mean Michelle isn't going to get the place?” Beatrice said. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, no. Not that exactly. But another person has been added. You know Michelle is alone. No man in her life. No kids. So, someone was added in case something happened to Michelle, right?”

“Oh I see. Well, that makes sense. Emma doesn't want the Kraft Corporation to get their hands on the place.” Beatrice thought about asking who the new beneficiary was, but she didn't want to pry.

“Neither do I,” he said firmly.

That surprised Beatrice. She found herself liking the man as he continued to talk.

“The minute they purchased the other parcel, they had a construction crew over there. It was some of the prettiest land. All those apple trees, gone.”

“I hear you. It was pretty. Old, too. One of the first orchards in the state,” Beatrice told him. “It's hard to see that happen. I was walking around over there and barely recognized the landscape. I used to know it so well.” She sighed. “Time marches on. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Thanks, Ms. Matthews, but I'm fine. I just want to be clear with you. I never intended to upset Emma. That bothered me, you see.”

“Well, now, I'm glad you came over to straighten it out. I can see where Emma might have misunderstood the conversation.”

“The family sent me over to talk to her. I told them it wasn't a good idea. I think she's intimidated by me.”

“Why would she be intimidated by you?”

“Not just me, Ms. Matthews, but most men.” He looked away.

“You know then,” Bea said softly. “You know how she was beaten.”

He nodded. “We all do, now.”

“I knew it back then,” Bea said, her voice suddenly quivering. “And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.”

“In those days, there weren't any social services, no Oprah Winfreys, either. I can't imagine what she went through.”

“I should have done something.” It was a confession Bea felt deep in her bones and in the center of her chest.

“You did, didn't you? At least that's how the story goes. You stood up for her.”

Bea nodded. “I did. But then I didn't see her again for forty years.” Suddenly Beatrice's old heart felt like it was splitting wide open. She clutched her chest and tried not to cry.
Old fool
, she told herself.
I am an old fool
.

“Are you okay?” Sheriff Bixby asked.

She waved her hand. “Oh, I'm fine. Just thinking about all the time that's gone by. How I missed her. Regrets. I've got plenty of them. But not reaching out to her sooner is at the top of my list.”

“Thank your lucky stars you didn't, Ms. Matthews,” Sheriff Bixby said in a somber tone. “I'm sure Paul would have killed you if you had.”

“What?”

“That's why Emma never contacted you. She didn't want him to hurt you.”

“How do you know that?” Beatrice said incredulously.

“My wife. She's got plenty of stories about the family. But that's something everybody agrees to. Paul threatened to kill you on more than one occasion. Ms. Emma had no choice but to turn her back on your friendship. That's what we figure.”

Beatrice didn't know what to think. It felt a mite too personal for her taste. How could he know such things?
Family.
She knew enough about family tales to know that sometimes there was a glimmer of truth to them.

She remembered that Emma had said she killed Paul. Bea was just now starting to believe it.