Scrapbook of the Dead (9 page)

“Sit down, please,” Sheriff Bixby said to Annie. “What can I help you with?”

The sheriff's office was nice, clean, and warm with plants in the room and pictures of flowers on the wall. Sheriffs were very different from police officers. They served at the will of the people. It was important that their constituency like them.

Is that why Sheriff Bixby is so polite?
Annie wondered. “I'm writing about the Martelino sisters. I'm here because Marina was found in your jurisdiction and I have some questions.”

“Fire away. Hasn't been a murder in the county since 2001 and that was a crime of passion, a domestic dispute. It's rare for us to have a homicide.”

“Were you the sheriff back in 2001?”

“I've been the sheriff for twenty-six years. I'm proud to serve the people of Albamont County.” Sheriff Bixby tapped his fingers on his desk, keeping time to some unknown tune in his head.

“Do you know Pamela Kraft and her husband well?”

“No, they run in different circles.” He grinned and stopped tapping.

“But she is on the up and up?” Annie persisted.

“What do you mean? Permits and so forth?” Sheriff Bixby asked, leaning forward, reaching for a pencil.

Annie nodded.

“As far as I know, she's as legit as it gets,” he said, tapping the pencil. The man just couldn't sit still.

“Isn't it odd that she has so many foreigners working for her?”

“I'll grant you, that is strange. But she's a good businesswoman. I reckon she knows what she's doing.”

“What do you know about the rumor that there are gangs in Cumberland Creek?”

The sheriff stiffened. “Not my jurisdiction. You have to talk to the police about that.”

“I find it hard to believe myself, but I was over at Druid where new apartments are and I was threatened. So I went to the cops and they told me not to go there alone.”

“I'd take that advice if I were you,” he said.

“But if the Martelino sisters were killed over some gang dispute—”

“Now, hold on. Nobody said anything about that.” He had finally stopped tapping.

“I'm sorry. I'm just thinking out loud. Here's what we know. Two sisters were killed within twenty-four hours of one another. They lived in an apartment complex, which is evidently the hub of gang activity. Do you follow me?” Annie said, cocking an eyebrow.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair, placed his hand behind his head and then clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if to say
shame on you
. Annie found it hard to look him in the eye—his mustache was distracting.

“First of all, it seems to make sense that the murders were related,” Annie went on. “And second of all, if they were involved in these gangs—”

“They were not involved in gangs,” he finally said. “They were two young women wanting to work and start a new life. That's all.”

“Are you certain?” Annie asked.

“Look, you're making all sorts of assumptions here. Not everybody at those apartments are gang members. Just because they were poor immigrants doesn't mean they're criminals.”

Annie's face reddened. “That's not what—”

“There's plenty of decent families living over there. A few bad apples—”

“I think if this was a gang-related incident, people should know. The people need to know what's going on in their community.”

“Is that all?” Sheriff Bixby said, annoyed. “Is that all, as far as your questions go?” His pleasant demeanor had vanished.

“No,” Annie said. “I promised some of the women in Cumberland Creek that I'd get the address of the Martelino family in Mexico so that they can send their condolences. Do you have any information?”

“We're working on it, but as far as I know they had no family,” said Sheriff Bixby.

“I imagine the process is convoluted.”

“At best.” Sheriff Bixby's buzzing phone interrupted the conversation. “Just a minute. I have to take this.” He picked up the phone and began talking.

Annie busied herself looking around his office. The man had a lot of photos of himself with other officials.
Interesting.
And very different from a police officer's office.

Sheriff Bixby cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. I'm on my way.” His face was white as he hung up the phone. “Ms. Chamovitz, I'm sorry. I need to get going.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“I'm sorry. I need to go,” he repeated and stood. Reaching out his hand to Annie's, he shook it then quickly ushered her out the door.

Beatrice punched the company name
Hathaway Transatlantic Employment
into the search engine. It had a nice Web site, very sophisticated. But what she wanted was a phone number. Aha—there it was. She grabbed her phone and dialed.

“What are you doing?” Jon said and Bea shushed him. He stood nearby with his hands on his hips.

“Transatlantic Employment, this is Linda Smoke. How can I help you?” the pleasant voice said on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, my name is Beatrice Matthews Chevalier and I live in Cumberland Creek, Virginia. One of your workers was recently killed here. Her name was Marina Martelino. There's a group of us in town that would like to send condolences to her family. Is that possible?” Beatrice asked.

“What are you asking? For an address?” Linda said.

“Yes, I'd like the address of her parents.”
Parents that have lost two daughters here in Virginia, where they were sent to work to send home money to help out the family.
Beatrice's stomach tightened.

“One moment please,” Linda said.

Jon gave up his stance and sat down on the couch next to Beatrice. Weird 1970s music played over the phone as the minutes ticked away.

“Mrs. Chevalier?” Linda Smoke interrupted the groovy music.

“Yes, I'm still here,” Beatrice said.

“I'm sorry. I can't find any records for Ms. Martelino.”

“What?”

“Maybe they have been misplaced. Or—are you certain you have the right agency?”

“Yes, yes, I'm certain.” Beatrice was trying not to show her impatience.

“May I take your phone number and get back to you? I'll continue to search when I can,” Linda said.

“Mighty nice of you,” Beatrice said and then gave her phone number. “Now, are you in Mexico?”

“No, Ma'am. The agency is housed in China.”

“Well, I do thank you for your help. Folks here just want to reach out to the family.” Bea was tempted to add
and I can't believe how difficult this is
.

“Kind of you,” Linda Smoke said.

After Beatrice hung up the phone, Jon said, “No address?”

“Marina's files have been misplaced,” Beatrice said.

“I smell something—how you say?—fishy,” Jon said. “Misplaced files? Everything is on the computer these days. I don't understand.”

“Maybe not in China,” Beatrice said.

“But an international employment agency, surely,” Jon said.

Beatrice thought a moment. “You're right. Why would she not want to give me the information? I'll call back and find out.”

Beatrice dialed the number. No answer. None. The phone rang and rang. She slammed the phone down. “All I wanted to do is send my condolences, but this is a bit much. You'd think I was asking for the moon.”

“No answer?” he said. “Maybe it's nighttime there and the woman has gone home for the day. Let's try again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me,” Beatrice said.

Beatrice's phone rang. It was Mike Chamovitz.

“Sorry to bother you, Beatrice,” Mike said, “but Annie is out on a story and I've gotten a call from a client who's in town and wants to meet for coffee. I can tell her no, but it would be a good thing if I could tell her yes. The boys are in bed. I'd really appreciate it if you could stay here until Annie or I can get back home.”

“A client this time of the evening?” Beatrice asked. Mike was a pharmaceutical sales rep.

“Very unusual,” he agreed.

“Well, of course I'll be there. But where's Annie?”

“She had a meeting with the sheriff and something came up,” Mike replied.

“The Martelino case?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But duty calls,” Mike said. “See you in a few?”

“Of course,” Beatrice replied.

“What is it?” Jon asked, leaning in toward her.

“I'm going over to watch Annie's boys,” Beatrice said, getting up from the couch. She found her purse and keys. Jon was on her heels.

She frowned. “What are you doing? You almost knocked right into me.”

“Sorry, but I'm coming with you, of course.”

She reached over and touched his cheek. “Thank you, Jon.”

On the walk over to Annie's house, they were quiet. They walked past the Jensens' yard decorated with dancing but ghoulish ghosts, backlit, providing an eerie ambience. Their new neighbors had decorated with huge mock spiderwebs in their tree and big furry spiders strategically placed. Another neighbor had made a fresh-looking grave and headstones with bloody hands reaching out from the ground. Beatrice had thought she was in the Halloween spirit by carving a few jack-o-lanterns to sit on her front porch.

As Beatrice and Jon walked along, there was not much to say as the chilly autumn night circled them. Half a moon hung in the sky and stars twinkled at them. Beatrice's old heart hung heavy. She couldn't shake the feeling of trepidation and fear, even as she reached for her husband's hand.

DeeAnn's day began the same as any other day since she'd hurt her back—except that she left the house. She visited the doctor, who said she needed to start physical therapy.

She was able to get around with a walker and sit up. The doctor gave her different pain medication that worked with a lower dosage. She didn't feel as high from them.

The week dragged on with visits from Karen, Bea, and Sheila. Paige was exhausted from all of the testing going on at the school, but she texted DeeAnn every day.

Saturday night, the crop had once again been moved to DeeAnn's place and she sat propped up on the recliner in a much better frame of mind—except for the one thing everybody was worried about, that everybody had been talking about. The murder of the sisters.

“Something odd going on there,” DeeAnn said. “Why are all these women who worked at the Pie Palace getting killed?”

“Marina's sister didn't work there,” Annie pointed out.

“I agree with DeeAnn,” Vera said as she turned the page on her scrapbook and looked over a fresh, blank spread of paper. “I love Pamela's pie, but I've always found her a bit off-putting and now all this. I wonder what's going on.”

“Why do you find her off-putting?” Cookie asked.

“The way she dresses for one thing,” Vera said. “Like she's a showgirl instead of a restaurateur.”

“She has her own style, that's for sure,” Randy said.

“But you know there's something else. Mama has been trying to reach the Martelinos' parents to send her condolences. She has yet to be able to do that. I think she's just about given up. But I don't understand what the big deal is,” Vera said.

“What do you mean?” DeeAnn asked.

“She's talked with Pamela. She's called the employment agency. No luck,” Vera said. “It's like these women have no ties. I find that hard to believe.”

“Maybe that's the way they wanted it. Maybe they never wanted to go back.” Cookie said it quietly, but the words had weight, coming from her. She was still working on remembering. Still in therapy.

DeeAnn had considered on more than one occasion that maybe Cookie didn't
want
to remember.

“Why?” Sheila spoke up. “I'm sure they have family.”

“Maybe not,” Cookie persisted. “Life in some of those countries is difficult. Their parents might not be alive. There may not be anybody.”

“That's true,” Annie said after a few minutes of silence, save for the sounds of paper being shuffled and scissors snipping. “I have a few calls in to Immigration. It may be awhile for them to get back to me. But I haven't really found Pamela helpful, either. She claims she doesn't know much about them.”

“That's probably true,” Randy said. “I like Pamela. She's a pro, very polite, very friendly. But she's not one you can easily warm up to if you know what I mean. Now, what do I do with this?” He held up a piece of blue netting.

Sheila rose from her place at the card table and went over to where he was. “Pull it, then place the sticky-side down on the page.”

“Very cool,” said Randy as he attached the netting.

“Now you can place paper or a photo on top of that. What a great picture,” she said.

DeeAnn saw that it was a photo of him and his dad at Halloween.
How about that?
It inspired her to see Randy at the scrapbooking table and to know that he and his father were getting closer. That surprised her. She knew that Paige was thrilled with the way things were working out.

“Have you found a house yet?” DeeAnn asked him.

“Not yet. I'm not in a hurry. I want it to be the perfect situation. I love living at the B and B. Elsie is such a character.”

“Elsie!” Annie said. “You know, I hadn't remembered until right now that she employed Marina's sister. I should talk with her.”

“Good idea,” DeeAnn said, feeling a slight pinching in her back. Should she take another pill? It was almost time—so she'd go ahead and take one.

“Let's see how you're doing,” Sheila said to Vera and Annie, who were seated next to one another because they were working on the same project—Halloween scrapbooks. The holiday was in a few weeks and Annie, Sheila, and Vera were the only three who had kids that still celebrated. They were working on mini-scrapbooks in preparation for their celebrations. Blank spaces for pictures and journaling, already embellished and so on. It was a clever and efficient way to scrapbook that worked out most of the time.

“I love working this way,” Vera said.

“I'm not sure how I feel about it,” Annie said. “I just don't know how it's going to work. I guess I normally take all of my design clues from photos, so I'm a little unsettled.”

“It will work out. You'll see,” Sheila said.

“What is that?” DeeAnn said, noticing a colorful paper sticking out from under Sheila's laptop.

“What? Oh, that's a paper dress,” Sheila said, holding it up.

“I can see that,” DeeAnn said. “Like for a paper doll?”

Sheila nodded and sat down, then dug around in her bag and pulled out an envelope. “Donna and I have been making paper dolls.”

DeeAnn's heart nearly burst. Paper dolls! She was transported to her childhood when she had spent hours playing with paper dolls. In fact, she still had some of them. Her hand went to her ample bosom and tears stung her eyes.

“DeeAnn?” Paige said. “What is it?”

“The dolls are so charming.” DeeAnn watched Sheila spread them out on the table. “I remember my mom and I cutting them out. The stories we would tell with them. . . .” She started to cr y—not sweet little nostalgic tears, but huge, ugly sobs.
Oh time, what have you done to me?

“DeeAnn?” Randy said, handing her some tissue. “Are you all right?”

She pointed to the dolls and tried to gather herself.

“Good Lord, I didn't mean to make you cry,” Sheila said and began to gather up the dolls and their paper clothes.

“Leave them!” DeeAnn said. “I want to see them.”

“I agree,” Paige said, her face flushed with excitement. “They're delightful.”

“Not just delightful . . . but remarkable,” Randy said in a hushed tone.

A silence came over the group as they pored over the homemade paper dolls. Tiny paper girls and women of all shapes and sizes with long, red hair, short, black hair, and many shades of brown. Paper dresses and shirts, skirts, and pants—blue, orange, red, all colors. But what made them extraordinary, DeeAnn thought as she ran her fingers over the smooth paper, were the details so meticulously drawn on. The lace collars, the colorful buttons, the floral prints.

“My goodness,” Sheila said. “They are just simple paper dolls. It's something Donna and I have made together since she was a girl. It's become a habit. And now that she's home . . . well . . . we've started doing it again. This time, with a little more flair, I suppose.”

“You should show these to your boss,” Randy said.

“What? Whatever for?” Sheila said.

Randy shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe they could start an upscale paper dolls line.”

“Nobody plays with paper dolls anymore,” Paige said. “It's all about electronics these days.”

DeeAnn drew in a breath and hoped she was wrong. Oh the hours she spent with her paper dolls as a girl. She and her sister Diane wiled away the hours with them.

The doorbell sounded. They all wondered who it could be. Everybody, except Beatrice was already assembled.

Randy answered the door. “Detective Bryant. Please come in.”