A Crafty Christmas (4 page)

Beatrice stood at her turquoise Formica counter and poured the brownie batter into her pan. Herb Alpert's Christmas music was blaring in the background. She loved baking with the music on. She sat the pan aside and opened the oven door. The nut cups smelled done. She took in the scent of them and pulled them from the oven, sat them aside on the counter, and placed the brownie batter in the oven.

She planned to let the nut cups cool and then take them out of the pan. She checked the time: 11:35
A.M.

In the meantime, the phone rang. She saw from the caller ID it was Elsie, one of the women from the Christmas bazaar she was helping with. This year the historical society was helping raise money for the Cumberland Creek Area Food Bank and Beatrice was in charge, much to the chagrin of Elsie Mayhue.

“Hello, Bea, this is Elsie,” the voice said.

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to let you know that we've gotten another three vendors and I'm wondering if you think there's space for one more.”

“Of course there's room,” Bea said, thinking this woman really needed to learn to do things for herself.

“Okay, I'll let them in and also let Leola know so that she can place their names in the program,” she said.

“Okay, sounds good,” Bea said, and hung up the phone just as the doorbell rang. She took a deep whiff of the rich scent of brownies as she walked into the foyer. Through the peephole she glimpsed two men she'd never seen before in her life. Standing on her porch, both were dressed in suits and one had a briefcase.

She opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“Beatrice Matthews?” the taller man asked. He was blond, baby faced, and wore Clark Kent glasses.

“Yes,” she said, wiping her hand on her apron.

“Investigator Len Springer, and this is my associate Ben Waters.” He showed her his badge. “May we come in?”

“I don't know,” Bea said. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk with you about a group of women you know who are on the
Jezebel
,” he replied.

“What's that?”

Suddenly Jon was by her side.

“That's the name of the ship that is holding a scrapbooking cruise,” the other agent said. “May we come in?” he asked again.

“I guess,” Beatrice said, and opened her door. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the living room area, which held two couches and several chairs. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, ma'am, but thank you,” the blond one said. “We'd like to talk to you.”

“Sure,” Bea said. “What's going on?”

The other suited man sat down on her favorite chair, so she sat on the chair next to it, while the blond sat on the couch with Jon.

“We've been sent by our office, who was contacted by the cruise line.”

“I presumed,” Beatrice said.

“There was an untimely death on board the ship—”

“I know. I just spoke with my daughter. I don't know what I can tell you about any of that,” Beatrice said.

“Is your daughter Vera Matthews?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“We think so. We're not here about her. We're here about Sheila Rogers,” the other man said. “She listed you as next of kin.”

“What? What about her husband? And is she okay?”

“We stopped by their house and he wasn't at home. So we wondered if there was any information you could give us.”

“I've known her a long time,” Beatrice said. “Since she was born, as a matter of fact.”
Did he say “next of kin”? Isn't that what they say when someone dies?
She grabbed her chest and repeated, “Is she okay?”

“This is so hard,” the younger, dark man said. “But no, she's not okay. We regret to inform you that Sheila was killed this morning. We think it was food poisoning. We're so sorry.”

Bea gasped. “No! There must be some mistake. I just spoke with Vera. She'd certainly have told me this.”

“It just happened,” one man said. “This morning.”

The other man reached into his bag and fumbled around with his paperwork. He fished out an official-looking paper and showed it to Beatrice and Jon. There was a passport photo of Sheila and a death notice from the cruise line. Attached to that was a report that the cause of death looked like poisoning. “The subject had gone to the infirmary complaining of stomach cramps approximately two hours earlier.”

Beatrice's head spun. This didn't make any sense. Certainly Vera would have told her if Sheila had been ill. Who were these men?

“Gentlemen, I'd like you to leave my home,” Beatrice said. “I'm sure that Sheila Rogers is still alive. I don't know what kind of game you're playing or what kind of idiot you take me for—”

“Beatrice,” Jon interrupted, and reached for her hand. “Please calm down.”

She pulled away from him and stood up. “Out! Out! Before I get my gun after you! How dare you come into my home and spread such vicious lies.”

The men stood.

“Are you threatening federal officers?” the blond said.

“Hmph, if that's even who you are,” she said. “And I'm giving you until the count of ten.”

“Mrs. Matthews—”

“Ten,” she said with a sternness that scared even herself. Damn, she still had it.

“Fine, we're leaving. But we'll be back,” the young man said.

“Nine,” she said.

The blond turned around to look at her. “We are sorry for your loss.”

“Eight,” she said.

After the men left and the door was shut, she dead-bolted it.

“What was that all about?” Jon said.

“I don't know,” Beatrice said, her voice now quivering. “I'm going to call Vera.”

When Vera picked up the phone she seemed breathless. “Yes, Mama? Everything okay?”

“Everything is fine here, except that two FBI officers were here and claimed that Sheila is dead.”

“What?”

“Where is Sheila? She there with you?” Beatrice asked.

“No, Eric and I left the crop when she didn't come back.”

“She didn't come back?”

“She went looking for someone with Paige and they didn't come back. We figured they found something else to do.”

“So you left the crop,” Beatrice said, trying not to raise her voice, but she heard the edge in it and hoped Vera did, too.

“Well, yes. Eric and I . . . were a bit tired and decided to nap,” Vera said.

“Nap, heh?” Beatrice said, and paused. She suspected there was no sleeping going on during their “nap.” “So you're certain Sheila is okay?”

Vera didn't answer right away and Bea heard shuffling going on in the background. “I don't know anything for sure,” Vera said. “But we saw her an hour ago and she was fine.”

Beatrice didn't know what to say to that. There was some kind of weird misunderstanding going on.

“Don't you think that someone would have told us if something happened to Sheila?” Vera said after a minute.

“I don't know, Vera. But you better go and find out, don't you think?”

“Is there a problem here, Sheila?” A warm voice came from behind her. It was Grace Irons, the woman in charge of the whole scrapbooking cruise.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” Sheila started to say. “Allie borrowed my scrapbook and you know what's happened, right?”

“Yes, it's a shame. I feel so bad,” she said, her face red with emotion. “This has never happened during one of my events, I assure you.”

“I don't mean to seem insensitive, but my scrapbook is in her room and I want it back,” Sheila said, crossing her arms.

“Just a minute,” Grace said, and walked by her.

“Well,” Paige said. “This cruise is getting more interesting by the minute. Allie was killed? This will be big news.”

Sheila turned to face her. “Who would want to kill her?”

“I know she was nice to you,” Paige said. “But she was a bitch, from what I heard. She didn't treat her employees very nicely. The cops might start questioning the people who worked for her.”

“But there are no policemen here on this cruise,” Sheila said, under her breath. “Only this security outfit.”

“Aren't they police?” Paige asked.

“No, I don't think so. They're hired by the cruise company.”

“Surely they have police training or something,” Paige said, bewildered.

“I have no idea,” Sheila said, and flung her arms out. “Just what exactly is taking them so long to get my scrapbook back to me? Seems like it should be easy enough to retrieve it.”

“Sheila! There you are.” Vera's voice rang through the corridor. She ran down the stretch of the hallway, with Eric trailing behind her.

Sheila stood, discombobulated by Vera's hysteria. “What on earth?”

“Mama called and was worried about you,” she said, a bit breathless. “I told her there was nothing to worry about.”

“Why was she worried about me? I don't understand. The old bat,” Sheila scowled.

“No, seriously,” Eric said. “Evidently she thought you were dead. Poisoned.”

She gasped.

Paige's hands went to her mouth. “So odd,” she said.

“Someone is dead all right,” Sheila said. “But it's Allie. I have no idea why anybody would think it's me.”

By that time, Grace had walked back out to her, followed by Matt.

“Matt, Mrs. Rogers is one of our guests of honor. She's one of the reasons we're all here on this cruise,” Grace said.

Sheila beamed.

“Why did someone visit Ms. Beatrice Matthews in Cumberland Creek, Virginia, and report that Sheila was dead?” Eric asked, point blank. “What's going on here?”

“I have no idea who would do that, let alone why. Someone must have mixed up the reports,” Matt said. “I am so sorry.”

“That's terrible!” Grace said. “Is Ms. Matthews okay?”

“Of course she is. She's my mother, by the way. She didn't believe a word of it. But it frightened her. She wanted to know what the hell is going on here. As do I,” Vera said. “What kind of a cruise is this where someone gets killed and it's reported that someone else was killed? What a bunch of hooey.”

Sheila stood in shock. Hooey, indeed. But in the meantime, she still didn't have that scrapbook.

“I do apologize,” Grace said. “It's so embarrassing.”

“Where's Sheila's scrapbook?” Paige said, after a few moments of awkward silence.

“We've been asked to leave the room as is until the FBI can do a sweep,” Matt said. “Standard procedure. They will meet us at the next port of call. When an American citizen is murdered on a cruise, the FBI takes over the investigation.”

“FBI?” Sheila said. “I'll never get my scrapbook back!”

“We'll make sure you do,” Grace said. “Please don't worry.”

“The next port of call is in two days in Mexico,” Vera said. “Do you mean that we'll be on the ship with a murderer for the next two days?”

“Our security staff will ensure the safety of our passengers, but please keep all this to yourselves. We don't want mass hysteria on board,” Grace said, with a tight smile, her cheeks stiff with stress. She wore bright red lipstick, perfectly applied, yet her face glowed with a sheen of sweat. “Why don't you all go to the crop? Sit back and relax. Have fun. We'll take care of everything.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Paige said as she turned to go.

“Please let me know when you have my scrapbook,” Sheila said, turning and following Paige. Eric and Vera trailed behind them.

The captain of the ship smiled at them as he walked by on his way to Allie's room. “Mrs. Rogers, good day to you.”

They had had dinner together the first night she was onboard. Sheila found him an absolute bore. She smiled and nodded politely, but kept moving.

They found their way back to the crop, where Randy was saving their seats.

“Where have you all been?” he said, flinging his arms out.

“You would not believe it,” Paige said, sitting next to him. She motioned to the young server who was passing out champagne.

“I'll take one, but do you have anything stronger?” Paige asked.

“What would you like?”

“Bourbon, straight up, please.”

“Make mine a double,” Vera said.

“What's going on?” Randy said, looking over his almost done page. He'd watched his mother and her friends scrapbook for years and sometimes joined the crop when he was a kid, but he hadn't scrapbooked in a long time. “It just needs a little something. Maybe glitter?”

“Stay away from glitter,” Paige said. “There's a reason I outlawed it in our house. Lethal stuff.”

“Hmm,” he said, and placed his page back on the table.

Paige then told him what had happened.

“Murder?” he whispered. “This sounds crazy. Nuts!”

“Mama,” Vera said into her cell phone, “Sheila is fine and right here.”

But Sheila wasn't certain she was fine. This morning she'd fallen over the dead body of Allie Monroe. Her head still ached from her concussion, and her scrapbook was still in a room where a murder investigation was taking place. She took a sip of her champagne and shrugged. At least she wasn't dead. She glanced around at the people surrounding her—that man was still there. She took another sip and pushed her glasses back up on her nose. She glared back at him and he turned his head quickly.

“Now, croppers, I have a treat for you,” a voice said over the microphone. “I know it's Christmas, but I love Halloween. So I'm unveiling my new Bloody Bash Halloween papers, inspired by the song ‘Monster Mash.'”

Much laughter from the crowd as “Monster Mash” blared through the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it's Halloween in December time! Woo-hoo!”

Servers came out dressed in costumes: vampires, mummies, and Frankenstein's monsters. They handed out packs of paper tied with a blood red ribbon.

“Well, now,” said Vera, reaching for her bourbon. “Isn't this just in keeping with the day?”

“Cheers!” Sheila said, holding up her glass of champagne. As she did, the ship rocked and swerved a bit, causing the champagne to spill all over her pretty new paper.