Scrapbook of the Dead (12 page)

DeeAnn felt better than she had in a long time. If it kept up, she might be able to get back to work sooner that they had thought.
Maybe the physical therapy is helping,
she mused. God knows she hated it.

She dialed her bakery.

“Yes, DeeAnn, everything is fine here,” said Jill when she answered the phone.

“Good,” DeeAnn said.

“Did you go through that stack of mail?”

“Not yet. I'll do that today.”

They talked a few more minutes before DeeAnn was satisfied all was well and then hung up.

One of the aspects of owning her own business that DeeAnn did not like was going through the mail and paying bills. But she guessed she better get to it. Then she hoped to get some scrapbooking in.

It was typical junk mail. She filled the wastebasket with it. Bill, bill, bill. She stacked those together. More junk mail. Then something caught her eye. Hathaway Transatlantic Employment Agency.
Hmmm.
The same one Pamela had used. It couldn't hurt to call, could it?

DeeAnn dialed the number.

“Hathaway Transatlantic,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

“Yes, my name is DeeAnn Fields. I'm calling regarding the ad you sent to me.”

“One moment please, I will transfer you,” the voice said.

Music played while DeeAnn waited.

“This is Harold Angelo. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” DeeAnn said and once again explained that she was responding to a brochure that had come in the mail.

“I'm very glad to hear from you,” Mr. Angelo said. “It looks like we have several other bakeries and restaurants in your area that use our service and are quite happy with us. We'd love to help you.”

“Why would I want to use your services rather than hire a local?” DeeAnn asked.

“Good question. Part of your payment goes to their relocation so you end up paying them less than minimum wage.”

“You mean their employment package counts against their salary?” she asked. It was unfathomable.

“Exactly. They sign contracts to stay with you until they've worked off the complete amount.”

“It doesn't seem legal.”
Or ethical.
But she kept that thought to herself—for the time being.

“It's very above board. I assure you,” Mr. Angelo said and then paused. “Many of these people are coming from very bad circumstances and you would be helping to give them a new life.”

“By paying them less than minimum wage?”

“Only for a short time.”

“How would they live on that?”

“Well, Ms. Fields, I'm so glad you brought that up. We have sponsors, you see. Sometimes it's families. Sometimes it's companies. But they help to house our workers.”

It sounded almost altruistic.
What's the hitch?
wondered DeeAnn.

“I can send one of our representatives to speak with you. It's sometimes hard to communicate over the phone.”

DeeAnn thought about it a moment. “Please do. I think I'd like that.”

After scheduling the appointment, she felt quite pleased with herself—devious, she was devious. You could not keep her down. She might not be able to work at her shop, but she could conduct business from home. Even if it was a ruse. Of course, there was no way in hell she'd hire anybody from that agency. But she wanted information and so did her friends.

Next, she dialed Annie. “You will never believe what I did.”

“What a great idea,” Annie said after DeeAnn explained.

“I hope you'll come.”

“I wouldn't miss it. And you won't be able to keep Beatrice away,” Annie said and laughed.

Annie's eyes scanned down the list of Sheila's customers who had purchased the Summer Dream scrapbooking paper from her. She didn't recognize most of the names—except for two. One was a woman whose kids went to school with hers. The other woman she didn't know—but her name was Mendez. Irina Mendez, who, according to the order form lived with and worked for the Drummond family. Annie would call to make an appointment with her and make sure it was the correct address. It was the third Mendez she'd heard of within a week. There was a Mendez at the police station with Bryant and it was the name of the man at the apartments. Her gut told her to start with the Mendez woman—and thank goodness she did not live at the Druid Lane apartments.

As she was getting ready to leave the house, her cell phone buzzed. It was the sheriff.

“Yes,” Annie said into the phone.

“Sheriff Ted Bixby here.”

“How can I help you?”

“I wanted to run something by you, if you don't mind?”

“Yes,” Annie said.

“Is it strange for me to think these murders have something to do with scrapbooking? I don't quite know what to make of all the scrapbooking stuff, but it seems significant that the killer left scrapbooking stuff on site.”

Stone cold fear crept into her stomach.

“Someone didn't like these women scrapbooking,” Annie said, more to herself than to the sheriff.

“I thought the same thing. But why? Seems harmless enough” said Sheriff Bixby.

“Scrapbooking is harmless, but sometimes women getting together is not,” Annie said. There was strength in communication and numbers—and some men didn't like it.

There was silence from the other end of the phone.

Annie continued. “What I mean is, in certain cultures, the men prefer their wives to be at home, without the friendship of other women.” She felt a ball of fury form in her gut.

“I see.”

“Especially if something is going on in the community that, I don't know, isn't right. And the women get together and discuss it,” Annie said.

“Sounds a bit far-fetched.”

“I agree,” Annie said. “But these cases are very strange.”

“True enough. These women lived in the US. Neither of them were married; they seemed to be alone. No boyfriends hanging around, either.”

“No men?” Annie said. “Odd. Maybe we need to dig a little deeper to find them. I'm sure there must have been some men in their lives.”

She was thinking she'd ask the woman who lived at the Drummond place, Irina, about boyfriends and so on—if she knew the sisters, that is. But Annie certainly was not going to tell the sheriff what she was up to. He was a lot more personable than Bryant, but he was still a cop. She knew what he'd say.
Leave the detective work to us.
But sometimes people would talk to her when they wouldn't open up to the police, especially if those people were from a foreign land in which police power was abused on a daily basis.

The sheriff chuckled. “Yes, you're right. They were young and healthy women. Why didn't they have men around? No boyfriends?”

 

 

Annie gathered her belongings, found her keys, and drove to the address Irina had given her when she called to make the appointment, on the other side of town—the Drummond place. As she pulled up into the driveway, she checked the address again. It, indeed, was the address on the scrapbook supply order form and the address Irina had given her. Funny, it didn't even look like anybody was living there. It was an old farm house on the edge of town. Annie noted that the Riverside Apartments buildings were visible from there, as was a sliver of the park.

She walked up the sidewalk to the front porch and door. To say the house needed a paint job was an understatement. The sidewalk was a bit crooked and the porch stairs were warped and creaky.

She rang the doorbell, almost certain it was not the right place. Getting ready to turn around, she was surprised when the door opened to a small, older, dark-skinned woman who smiled nervously at her.

“Hello,” Annie said. “Are you Irina?”

She nodded. “Yes, you must be Annie. I've been expecting you,” she said, plastering a cool, professional-looking smile on her face, even though that's not quite how she felt.

When Annie walked in, she was shocked to see how lovely and clean the inside of the house was. Beautiful Victorian furniture, well-appointed rooms, gorgeous, gleaming woodwork throughout—and yet the outside of the place had gone to hell. She tried not to show her surprise. “Is this your house?”

“I live here. But this is where I work. I work for the Drummond family,” Irina said. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something? Tea? Water?”

“No thanks,” Annie said, a little off-balance by the remarkable difference between the inside of the house and the outside. “This is such a lovely home.”

“Thank you,” Irina said. “I like to make things look pretty. What brings you here?” she asked with a pleasant expression on her face, smoothing over her dark skirt.

Where have I seen her before?
Annie wondered.
“
As I said on the phone, I'm a reporter and I'm working on the story about the Martelino sisters.” She reached into her bag for her recorder and clicked on the button. The woman appeared to be okay with it and Annie had mostly stopped asking permission anyway. If people didn't want to be recorded, they'd tell her.

“Yes,” Irina said, looking down. “They were both my friends. God rest their souls.” She crossed herself.

Finally! Someone who knew them that will talk to me
, thought Annie.

“Lovely young women,” Irina said. “Horrible way to die.” Her bottom lip quivered.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” Annie said, taking a closer look at her and wondering where she had seen her before? “I'm sure you'll agree that we need to find justice for them. Find out who killed them and bring them to justice.”

The woman cracked a smile.

But her cheeks quivered, escaping from the forced smile.

“Did the women have any other friends besides you?” Annie asked, after a moment and then she finally realized where she had seen Irina before. She was the woman who had been hugging the sad-eyed young man at Pamela's Pie Palace the day of the first murder. It made sense now. She was a friend of Marina's.

“Yes,” Irina said. “We have a large community of people here.”

“But did the women have any close friends?”

“A few,” Irina said, after appearing to mull it over.

“Any men?” Annie asked hopefully.

Irina stiffened. “Not really. They were beautiful, loving young women and wanted to marry, eventually. But”—she shrugged and gestured with her hands—“it didn't work out yet. They were young.” Her voice cracked.

“Hard to believe there were no men sniffing around,” Annie said.

The other woman shrugged.

“I was over at their apartments and a man was there. Not very friendly. He has the same last name as you,” Annie said.

The woman chuckled. “Half the Hispanic population has the same last name as me. It's like your Smith or Jones. We're not related.”

“Oh I see. So you don't know him?”

“Oh, I know him,” Irina said with an edge to her voice. “Not a very nice man. Thinks he's king of the hill because he manages apartments.”

“You don't live over there. Why?”

“Why would I? This is a nice place. I like Ms. Drummond. There's plenty of room for me here.”

Annie wondered if it was as simple as that. Why wouldn't she want her own place? And why wasn't the outside of this place as meticulously cared for as the inside? How could she even begin to frame such a question?

“Ms. Drummond even allows my friends to come here to scrapbook,” Irina said. “She's very nice. None of the others have enough room in their homes.”

“This is where you meet to scrapbook?” Annie looked around.

“Yes, in the dining room. There's a huge table in there. We're having a crop Friday night. The first night since . . . they passed away. Would you like to come?”

Annie could not believe her luck. Was it luck, karma, or kismet? She had to stop herself from jumping up from her chair and screaming,
“Yes!”

She met Irina's smile with her own. “I'll have to check my calendar. But I'd love to come.”

Beatrice walked up the sidewalk to the Drummond house. Halloween was in a few weeks and it occurred to her that the place looked like something straight out of a clichéd horror movie. The sidewalk was cracked and lopsided. The house needed a good painting and the porch was sagging.

If Emma was dead, she'd be turning over in her grave—but instead she was at an assisted living place, afraid to leave her room and thinking that she'd killed her husband. A shiver traveled up Bea's spine.
Emma must be mistaken. Nobody is living here.

But when she stepped up onto the porch, she glimpsed a movement in the window. And there were curtains! Bea rang the doorbell.

A short, dark-haired woman opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“I'm a good friend of Emma Drummond—”

“She doesn't live here anymore,” the woman interrupted curtly and started to close the door.

Beatrice's arm prevented it. “I know that. I'd like to see her daughter, Michelle. She lives here, right?”

“Yes, come in.” The woman sighed and reluctantly opened the door.

When Bea walked through the door, she was taken straight back to the last day she had been in the house. The day she'd witnessed Emma being smacked across the face by her husband. Beatrice had intervened, not thinking, and the man almost struck her as well.

The woodwork was polished and shining. The carpets and curtains were beautiful, clean, and well-appointed.
What's the deal with the outside?
thought Bea.

The woman gestured to the couch. “Please have a seat.”

“
Hello.” A small, childlike voice came from around the corner. Beatrice twisted around to see. The approaching woman was a wisp of a thing. A little younger than Vera, maybe, and pretty as she could be.

“Michelle? I'm Beatrice, a friend of your mom's,” Bea said, standing and offering her a hand. The last time she had seen Michelle she had still been in diapers. Beatrice was certain she wouldn't remember her.

Michelle took her hand and shook it, only meeting Bea's eyes once.

“I was just visiting Emma,” Bea said. “And she mentioned that you lived here.”

Michelle sat down. “Irina,” she called. “Can we get you some iced tea? Water?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Beatrice said.

“Yes, for the time being, I live here,” Michelle said, returning to Bea's earlier question. “I love this old place. It's the only home I've ever known.”

“I used to visit here back when Emma and Paul lived here. It is lovely. The other day I was walking over by the park and saw the place, which prompted me to look up your mom.”

Michelle simply said, “Ah.” She wore no makeup. She had pretty, big brown eyes, framed in long, dark lashes, a button nose, and an unfortunate, pointy chin. “How is she?” asked Michelle.

“Fine. She doesn't leave her room?” Beatrice asked. She liked that Michelle wasn't all made up.

“No,” Michelle said, meeting Beatrice's eyes with her own. “Unfortunately, it runs in the family.”

“You don't leave the house?”

She shook her head. “Oh I have, but not recently. That's why I have Irina. She gets me what I need. Between her and the Internet, I have no need to go out, really.”

So that's why the place had gone to pot outside. Michelle never saw it.

What to say to something like that? Beatrice knew there were shut-ins everywhere. But this young woman appeared healthy. It must be a form of agoraphobia.

“When I was walking the other day and saw the place it made me kind of sad. I didn't know anybody lived here. From the outside . . . well, I thought it was abandoned,” Beatrice said carefully. That was as polite as she could put it. She was pleased with herself.

“It's intentional,” Michelle said, jutting that pointy chin of hers out farther. “I want people to stay away, especially the Kraft Corporation.”

“What? Why?”

“We had to sell part of our land to help keep Mom in the nursing home. So we sold it to them. Then they built those stinking apartments, brought in bad sorts of people. I figure if folks think the place is abandoned, they won't be robbing me or bother with me at all.”

“What makes you think they'd rob you?” Beatrice asked, thinking that Michelle sounded a bit paranoid.

“I've had a few incidents already. And the Kraft Corporation wants the whole shebang. I'll never leave here!” Michelle was getting hoarse. Her voice was draining.

“Ms. Drummond.” Irina suddenly appeared. “Shall I get you some of your medicine?”

Michelle nodded. She sat very straight in her chair. Her body belied the look on her face, which was borderline panic.

“I'm sorry. I get a bit upset sometimes. They really have upset me. The men that come here and try to get me to sell this place. It's the last link I have to my family. I'm the last one. Well, aside from my mother and my cousin. And they want to take it all from me,” she said.

Irina appeared again, seemingly out of nowhere, and handed Michelle a glass of water and a pill.

That was the thing about hired help, they were always around. It was something Beatrice could never have abided. “What men?” she asked.

“The Kraft Corporation. The ones who built the apartments.”

Beatrice sank back into the cushions on the couch.

“They want this place and the rest of the land. They can have it over my dead body,” Michelle said.

“Good for you,” Beatrice said.
Kraft
, she thought.

That was Pamela's last name. Was the Kraft Corporation hers? Or was it a relative? Kraft was a popular name in these parts. It could have no bearing at all. But it might be a little too coincidental—the women who were killed had links to the Pie Palace and also lived in apartments possibly owned by a member of Pamela's family. Just what was going on?