Scrapbook of the Dead (11 page)

DeeAnn still could not take the stairs up to her bedroom. Thank God she could walk around a bit downstairs and tinker in her own kitchen, still stocked with casseroles and goodies from half of Cumberland Creek's population. Jacob and Karen had tried to maintain some semblance of order, but it wasn't the same. She liked things a certain way. After rearranging the casseroles in the fridge, a sudden wave of weariness overtook her.

She sat down at the table, opened her laptop, and clicked on the local newspaper's icon to read the news. Scrolling through the mundane stuff—school news, accident news, and so on, she tried to find the latest updates on the Martelino cases. There was nothing new.

“What are you doing?” Jacob said as he walked into the kitchen.

“I was trying to get some news of the murders.”

“Anything?” he said, reaching into the cupboard for a glass.

“Nothing new. Now, Jacob, tell me what you know about the Druid Lane apartments.”

He filled his glass with water. “That's where the woman who was attacked a few months ago lived.”

“That could happen almost anywhere,” DeeAnn said, wishing the conversation wasn't necessary, that she would wake up from a dream, and that there were no gangs close by.

“Yeah, well, I know some guys who were over there and their tires were slashed. Other stuff, too.”

“What were they doing there?”

“One of my mechanics was dating someone who lived there. Evidently, someone didn't like it,” he responded.

“Is he still seeing her?”

“I don't know, DeeAnn. I don't follow his personal life. I just know about the tires because he bought some from the shop.”

“What else do you know?” It confounded her how he could work with someone and not know about who they were dating.

“I've also heard that if you want drugs, that's the place to go,” he said and sat down at the table with his glass of water.

“What kind of drugs?”

“Hell, how do I know?”

“Probably meth, pot, cocaine,” she said, feeling her heart race.

“Calm down. You look like you're getting ready to explode.” He smiled. “I doubt there's anybody dealing cocaine over there.”

“Lord, Cumberland Creek's turning into a cesspool of murder, drugs, gangs.” She reached for her husband's hand. “I'm so glad our girls aren't going to school here anymore.”

“I think you're exaggerating a bit. But I'd be troubled, too, if our girls were still in school. What's Paige have to say about all of it?”

“Not much,” DeeAnn said. “She's so ready to retire, but they keep sucking her back in. And I think she's so happy now that Randy's back home, nothing else matters.”

Jacob smiled. “I get that. It's good when they come back home. Karen's been a godsend.”

Indeed, their oldest daughter had been wonderful. It was a shock to many people to see her change into such a fine upstanding young woman. She'd had a rough few years in high school—had gotten in with the wrong crowd and involved with alcohol and started having sex way too early. Now, she was a nurse and had tended to her mother as much as she could while still working at the hospital. Her sister would be graduating soon, as well.

“So do you think the Martelino sisters were murdered because of some gang thing?” DeeAnn asked.

“You're sitting around imagining all sorts of things, aren't you? You need to get back to work.”

“I wish. It's so clear to me the murders are connected, plus the Martelinos lived over there where all the gang activity is.”

“They need to look into Pamela.” Jacob had never liked her, and it wasn't just about the business competition. “I think if I were investigating a murder, I'd start there.”

“Oh Jacob,” DeeAnn smiled. “Pamela's a bit strange, but she's no killer.”

He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. “How do you know? There's something off about her.”

“I've always thought so, too. The way she dresses like she's living in the 1950s. I thought it was all about the Pie Palace, you know, and being in character. But anytime you see her, that's how she's dressed. She doesn't ever seem to go out unless she's in the complete getup. I don't know what that's all about, but I do know that any woman who bakes pies like she does could not kill people.”

“DeeAnn! That doesn't make any sense at all.”

“Don't you know that pie is about love?” She smiled but then a twinge of pain shot up through her center. “Jacob, can you get my pills?”

“Pie is not about love,” he said, going into the next room to fetch her pills and then bringing them back and setting them on the table. “Pie is about dough, and fruit, and sugar.”

“Men. You don't understand.” She reached for the pill bottle and it fell, scattering her pills across the table.

“Good Lord, DeeAnn, how many of those pills have you taken? I just got them for you yesterday. Not many left.”

“I've lost track. I just take one when it hurts.”

Jacob's brow knit. “I don't think that's the way it's supposed to work.”

“Of course it is,” she said and swallowed a pill. “That's what they're for—pain.”

Jacob picked up the bottle and read the directions. “Did you ever read this?” He held up the bottle. “You're not supposed to take more than two a day.”

“Doctors! What do they know?” She shrugged.

“What are you suggesting, Annie?” Pamela said over the phone.

“I'm not suggesting anything. Please calm down. I'm only saying there might be a link. A woman who worked for you has been killed. Plus you have had all those employees go missing over the years.”

“Don't you think I know that? Couldn't it be a coincidence? I mean Marina's sister had nothing to do with me,” Pamela said with a bite in her tone.

Annie thought it over. “Well, you're right, of course. It could be a coincidence. But if I were you, I'd look into their backgrounds and see if there's anything there.”

“I've told you this before, Annie—so many immigrants come here to escape their backgrounds. They are running away from their countries. They want to start fresh. Most of the time, I don't know anything about them. The agency sorts through all that.” Pamela's voice was getting shrill. She took a deep breath. “If I can think of anything, I'll let you know.”

After they said their good-byes, Annie turned back to her computer. Nothing. There was nothing on any of either sister in her databases. Pamela was right. It was as if they had appeared out of nowhere.

She had put in at least ten calls to Immigration but it was leading her nowhere. She had to take another tack. But what? Where did the recent immigrants gather? At a bar? A restaurant? Some sort of meeting place, other than where they lived?

Annie's alarm went off; she often set alarms throughout the day when she was working. Seemed the day slipped away and the next thing she knew her boys were home and she hadn't gotten dinner under way or anything else accomplished. The alarms kept her on track.

She grabbed her purse and her keys and headed to the store before they got home.

In the parking lot of the one grocery store in Cumberland Creek, she noticed Elsie loading groceries into her car. She stopped and helped her.

“Well, thank you, Annie,” Elsie said.

“Can I ask you a few questions about Esmeralda Martelino?” Annie asked, glad that she might be able to question Elsie without having to go to the B and B. After having been almost killed there, she preferred to not ever go back again.

“Who?” Elsie said with befuddlement.

“Randy said she cleaned for you. Esmeralda Martelino?”

“Ah, yes, the little Mexican gal. She was so pretty. I talked to the news and the police about her. I don't have much to add. She was a good girl and a hard worker.”

“Did she ever talk about her sister?” Annie asked.

“No. I don't generally talk with employees about their personal lives, and she barely spoke English.”

“How did you find her?”

“I found her through my cousin who knew about this employment agency. Hathaway,” Elsie replied.

Of course
, Annie thought,
she used the same agency as her sister.

“Thanks, Elsie. You know, if you can think of anything else, please give me a call.” She turned and walked away.

Elsie waved as Annie hurried off. “See you, Annie,” she called.

Annie glanced at her watch. There was no time to waste.

Rushing through the store, throwing items into her basket, the oddest feeling crept over her. She stopped and looked around. She didn't see anything out of place. Nobody unusual. She turned the corner and there she was. The woman from the apartment complex, pale, smiling nervously, with a basket over her arm.

“Hello,” Annie said.

The woman nodded and looked off in another direction.

A zip of electricity running up her spine brought Annie's attentive powers to a point. The young woman was nervous. Annie wondered if Mendez was around. “Are you okay?” she asked in a hushed voice.

The woman's eyes met hers and shot a look of fear at her. Then she blinked. “Of course.”

Annie slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out her card. “Keep this close. If you think of anything to tell me about the Martelinos, I'd appreciate it.”

The woman's face fell, but she took the card. “My friends,” she said almost involuntarily. She shoved the card into her bag.

“I'm truly so sorry,” Annie said. “We wanted to send condolences to her family. Do you know how to reach them?”

Suddenly the man who had confronted Annie at the leasing office came from around the corner, a loaf of bread in his hand. He sized her up and shot her a look of disgust.

Annie smiled at both of them. “I'm very sorry for your losses.”

He mumbled something under his breath in Spanish. Annie wasn't certain, but she thought he'd called her a bitch again. What was with this guy?

The woman said in Spanish that he should watch his filthy mouth; that Annie seemed to have good intentions.

But her voice shook with fear, and she walked off.

In the checkout line, Annie turned to see if she could spot them, but they were gone, either deep in the store or they had left.

After she loaded the groceries into her car and went to get in, she noticed that one of her tires was flat. Not a simple flat, but slashed, completely destroyed. A flash of fear moved through her. Someone had just slashed her tire. In broad daylight. Coincidence?

She called Bryant first, then her husband. Someone had to get home to the boys while she waited.

Before she knew it, Detective Bryant was in the parking lot. “That is one slashed tire,” he said as he examined her car.

“I just saw that Mendez guy in the store and I think he called me a bitch,” Annie said.

Bryant cocked his head. “Huh. Well, he couldn't have done this if he was inside the store.”

“I think he had plenty of time while I was talking to the woman who works over at the apartments. Evidently, they were here together.”

“It doesn't take long to slash a tire, but it does take a big blade and some strength,” Bryant said. “I'm going to level with you. This is a warning. You need to back off.”

“Back off of what?”

“Have you been back to the apartments?”

“No, I've only just seen the two of them now, here, in the grocery store. I spoke with the woman briefly and gave her my card.”

“Annie, I don't want to scare you, and I don't want to see an article in the papers about this, but this gang stuff is very serious.”

“You can't get more serious than murder,” she said with a low voice.

“Nobody said anything about murder. Typical. You go from a slashed tire to murder.”

“I think the Martelino sisters must have had something to do with this gang,” she said.

“What do you base that on? That they lived on Druid?” He shook his head. “Annie, there's a lot going on over there. I'm not saying that we should mark it off the list of possibilities. I'm saying not to jump to conclusions.”

“Where can I get more information about the gang?”

Adam turned away from her and answered his cell phone. When he turned back around, he told her that he'd have to go.

The AAA truck pulled up at the same time.

Annie caught Bryant's arm, feeling one of his muscles. The man did love his workouts. “Please. Can't you tell me what's going on?”

“I'm sorry, Annie, I just can't.” He looked at her with a hint of compassion. “Just be careful, okay?”

Something in Adam Bryant's eyes terrified her. She nodded. She would be careful, yes, indeed.

Beatrice clicked through the pop-up ads on the computer screen. What a pain. When she finally got to the Google search screen, she keyed in
Emma Drummond
, which brought up a whole slew of Emma Drummonds, none of whom was the one she was interested in. She knew that Emma lived over at Mountain View Assisted Living, but she wondered if there was any clue on the computer what her physical or mental state was. Bea didn't want to go in for the visit unprepared. It would help to know what Emma's condition was.

But she was going to have to wing it. Elsie had enlisted Jon in helping pick out a new paint color for the dining room at the B and B (thank the Lord for small favors). Bea had been asked to go but told them she'd rather not.

So she was off to Mountain View, which was about six blocks away. She walked through her town toward the mountains—the ones that her daughter had always prayed to, the ones that she looked at every day of her life. They were a comfort to her.

She walked past where she used to get her hair done, now closed because Flo couldn't compete with the new Hair Cuttery. She walked past the fountain and nodded to several of the old people who were congregating there. A group of people walked out of DeeAnn's Bakery, which appeared to be hopping even though DeeAnn wasn't there to oversee. It was so lovely with its pink and brown color scheme. Then she walked by Vera's dance studio and across the street where Emily McGlashen's studio was—and where her body had been found when she was killed.
Such a shame.

Beatrice walked down another block, wondering what the world was coming to. She crossed the bridge and hummed a tune that she made up right then and there. She paused after she crossed the bridge, caught her breath a bit, and turned to look at her town. She saw graffiti on the bridge. It was a weird squiggle painted in red. She'd seen that squiggle somewhere before. She reached into her pocketbook and took a photo with her cell phone. That was the only thing the damn thing was good for. That, and letting Vera know she was still alive—and apparently at her beck and call.

From where she was standing, she had a partial view of the park built along the river. She remembered the day it was dedicated as if it were yesterday. But yesterday she wasn't too sure about. She smiled to herself and kept moving.

Mountain View Assisted Living looks like a nice place,
she mused as she came up over the hill. It sat tucked in a bit of a valley, but she was certain the place did have a mountain view, as the name promised.

Several old men sat outside smoking cigarettes and chatting among themselves. They completely ignored her, as she did them. At this point in life, one didn't like to mess around with trivial conversation.

She walked up to the counter and hit the desk bell, which stood next to a wooden black cat with its back arched. A sign hung around its neck that said H
AVE A
BOO-
TIFUL
D
AY
. Beatrice tried not to roll her eyes.

“Yes? Can I help you?” The woman behind the desk was small and bird-like.

“I'd like to see Emma Drummond. That okay?” Beatrice said.

“Is she expecting you?” The woman pushed her glasses higher on her nose. Her hair was completely white—but Beatrice didn't think she was a day over fifty.

Beatrice shook her head. “No. I wanted to surprise her. I'm an old friend,”

“Name?”

“Beatrice Matthews.”

“Just a minute. Please have a seat, Ms. Matthews,” the receptionist said and left the area.

The place looked clean and was furnished simply. It was run by the Mennonites so there were no fancy chandeliers or plush carpets like in some other places she'd been to visit. A group of women came around the corner. One held a cane, another was in a wheelchair and had an oxygen tank. The other two appeared to be fine.

“Are you the bus driver?” one of them said to Bea.

“No, I'm just here to see someone,” she replied.

An attendant came into the lobby and said for Bea to follow her to Emma's room.

Beatrice followed her down a plain but cheerful and well-lit hallway. Rails ran along either side of them. Floral prints were set off by ornate frames and lined the walls.

“Right in there,” the attendant said and pointed.

Beatrice's heart raced. How strange was this going to be? She probably hadn't seen Emma in thirty-five or forty years.

Emma poked her head around the corner. “Well, don't just stand there, Beatrice Matthews. Come on in.”

Before Beatrice knew it, Emma had her by the hand and pulled her in for one of the longest hugs she'd ever had. “Beatrice,” she said when she finally pulled away as if to get a good look at her. Then came another hug.

“Please sit down,” Emma said. “I've got some iced tea. Can I get you some?”

“Surely. And thanks.” Beatrice was gobsmacked at how wonderful Emma appeared to be doing. She looked good—same bright blue eyes, lively smile, and she still moved around like a bird flitting from pillar to post.

Emma set the glass of iced tea down on the table next to Bea and then sat down. “I'm so happy to see you, Bea.” She beamed.

“It's been a long time,” answered Bea. “I'm sorry about that.”

“Oh, you know”—Emma waved her off—“life gets in the way sometimes. What brings you here?”

Beatrice paused a beat. “Memories. Good ones.”

“Hear, hear,” Emma said and tilted her glass.

“I was over by your place the other day,” Beatrice went on. “Had my new husband over there.”

“Married? Again?”

“Yes, I'll bring him by sometime. But we were over there and went to the clearing where you and I used to take the girls. Remember?”

Emma nodded.

“And you'll never believe what I saw.”

“What?”

“A fairy tree,” Beatrice said. “It reminded me of your fairy trees. How lovely they were. But I thought it odd since nobody's living at the house.”

“You're wrong about that. My daughter lives there.”

“What? Didn't look like anybody lived there.”

“Well, I haven't been there in a while. I don't leave this room.” Emma said it with a strange tone in her voice. “I never do. But I know that my daughter lives there. I imagine the place is run down. She doesn't have much help in tending to it. Just one woman who's a housekeeper and nurse.”

Beatrice sorted through her memory of the place.
Could someone actually be living there?
She didn't think so. Emma must be mistaken.

Bea wondered if Emma knew about the apartments. Had anybody told her?

“Well, you know there's apartments over there,” Beatrice said carefully.

Emma nodded. “We sold part of the land and they'd like to buy the rest of it. Ain't happening,” she said with finality.

That answered a few questions. But Beatrice still couldn't fathom someone living in that old dilapidated house. It didn't look safe.

Beatrice took a look around Emma's room, filled with lace tablecloths, antique glassware, and photos of her family. Everything seemed normal. Yet Emma said she didn't leave her room.

Maybe she was mistaken about the house.

“You know, after your husband died, I thought about coming over and seeing you. I don't know why I didn't,” Emma suddenly said. “Your Ed was a good man.” She paused. “I suppose sometimes it was hard for me to see you two together.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued before Bea spoke.

“Well, he wasn't perfect,” Bea said. “But we were very happy. Come to think of it, I don't remember reading anything about Paul's death. What happened?”

Emma sighed, then smiled, resembling the twenty-two-year-old woman that Beatrice knew so well. “I killed him.”

“Come again,” Beatrice said and leaned in closer.

“You heard that right. I'd never admit that to anyone but you. After his first massive heart attack, they gave him dietary restrictions. None of which I adhered to. One morning, he had another heart attack. It was as simple as that.”

Beatrice's mouth dropped open.

“In fact, he asked me to get help,” Emma said and looked off into her own distance. “And I told him to go to hell.” She sat back in her chair and placed her hands demurely on her lap. “And then I watched him die.”

Beatrice's hand clutched her chest. He had been terrible to Emma, had beaten her and berated her in public, but to kill the man? “Surely not.”

“Well, I had to make sure he was good and dead,” Emma said, lifting up her iced tea and taking a long drink.