The classroom, however, was windowless. It was just a conference room, like so many conference rooms Sheila had visited. She was dressed in black slacks and a silky, flowing red shirt, with a blazer over it. Creative but professional was the look she was after. Vera gave her a thumbs-up as she entered the room.
Sheila had capped the class at one hundred participants because the cruise organizers said they only had that many laptops for attendees.
Sheila was unveiling her One Journey digital scrapbooking and journaling system today. This was part of her entry into the competion and what she wanted to sell to David’s Design. One Journey was a template for use with any number of digital scrapbook applications. Each participant had already selected the application she was using and Sheila would teach to each one. Most participants were using Photoshop Elements and My Memories.
As she considered her students, she was pleased to see both Heather and Theresa, not sitting together, but each with her own group of friends or colleagues. Interesting, since Theresa said she didn’t care for her designs, Sheila thought. Was she imagining it or did Theresa just smirk at her?
Sheila looked in the other direction—the direction of the podium. Ms. Irons approached it.
“We are so pleased today to bring you our top prize winner, Sheila Rogers. We’ve found during this cruise that she’s as delightful as she is talented.”
Who found that? Sheila was finding it hard not to knit her brows.
“Sheila is a perfect example of a woman who puts family first, yet has found success. And we are so honored that she’s here and able to share her scrap-journaling template One Journey. But before we do that I wanted to share with you what some of our judges said about Sheila’s work.
“This from David of David’s Designs: ‘Grounded in classical tradition, with a nod toward the modern, and one of the freshest design eyes I’ve ever seen.’”
Cheering from the crowd jolted Sheila’s heart into a near panic. Really, he said that about me? These people are cheering for me? It was too much!
“This from Memory Mama: ‘Sheila’s work is solid. Her style is fresh and original. Where have you been, Sheila Rogers?’”
“And this from our Allie—”
A hush came over the room.
“‘I love this woman’s keen sense of design flow and color. But most of all, I love the heart and soul that goes into each one of her designs. Welcome to the big league, Sheila!’”
Much cheering from the crowd again as Sheila’s face heated. She noticed that very same man she seemed to see everywhere. He was sitting next to Theresa. He wasn’t going to bother her. Not now.
“And now, we give you Ms. Sheila Rogers,” the voice from the podium said.
“Thanks so much,” Sheila said. “Also thanks so much to all of the judges for their kind words.” She messed with her mike a bit. “Thanks to all of you for coming here today. Can everybody hear me?”
“Yes!” several people yelled back.
“Good,” she said. “The first thing I want you to do is to shake your body. Either stand up and shake or sit in your chair and shake your parts. Get all the kinks out.”
Much commotion ensued.
“I’m the mother of four children. We used to call this getting the wiggles out.”
Laughter, then the classroom settled.
“The next thing I’m going to ask you to do is quite . . . extraordinary. And some of you may find that you simply can’t do it,” she said.
This was a technique she’d learned from Cookie Crandall’s yoga class.
“I want you to take five minutes and sit quietly. No talking. At all. There’s a reason for this and I’ll explain it after we’re finished. Let’s start. Now.” She took a seat.
As in every class she taught with this technique, there were a few giggles, then sounds of people settling. As time wore on, the room stilled. At four minutes in, Sheila arose from her chair and walked back and forth in the front of the room.
“So,” she said softly. “One of the reasons I like to start my class in silence is that it focuses your energy inward. The room’s energy also shifts.”
She heard sniffling. Yes, there was always at least one woman moved to tears. Silence was a luxury for some, especially women in the thick of doing everything for everybody in their lives. Silence was a gift.
“This kind of scrapbooking is about you. And believe it or not, this is something your kids will probably cherish more than the photos of themselves,” Sheila said.
Her eyes caught Vera’s. She was glazing over. Honestly, Vera was the worst student. She found it hard to sit still, let alone listen to a teacher. Sheila watched her and used her as a gauge.
“Let’s move on to the first exercise and then we will take a break for those of you who need it,” Sheila said. “Let’s click on your screens.” She waited a few minutes to continue. “Now, the first page has a space for your photo, which if you don’t have now, you can load up later. It also gives you a prompt. ‘I Am’ asks you to list five things that you are. Mother, doctor, so on. This will get you going. Let’s give that ten minutes or so and then we’ll take a break.”
After class, Sheila was approached by people for autographs and several participants told her how much they enjoyed the class. One woman, who was young, svelte, and blond, touched her arm. “Sheila, I want you to know how powerful and moving that was for me. I’ve never thought about scrapbooking about myself. And you’ve made it so easy. Thank you.”
Sheila beamed. Even as the room thinned out, her friends still hung in there and gathered around her at the end. There were hugs from everybody.
“Just fabulous,” Vera said, with tears in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Excuse me.” A voice came through the gathering. It was Matthew Kirtley, chief of security. “Mrs. Rogers, may I have a word with you?”
“Certainly,” Sheila said. “What can I help you with?”
“Can you come down to the office with me, please?”
“I had planned on going to the pool,” she said.
Ms. Irons approached him. “Now, I’ve told you to leave her alone. She’s an honored guest.”
“I just want to ask her a few questions,” he said.
“Why don’t you ask them here?” Sheila said. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about the untimely deaths on board this ship,” he replied.
“I don’t know anything about them, except what you’ve told me,” she said, packing her things into her bag. Her friends stood motionless, watching over them.
“Can you remember anything else that might help out the FBI? We’ll be docking tomorrow and they will have questions. I’m working on my report.”
“I’ve told you everything I can remember. Everything I know,” she said.
“There seems to be two links in the deaths. One is that they were both poisoned.”
“And what’s the second link?” Sheila asked.
“You,” he replied. “You tripped over the first body and you were in the hallway when we discovered the second one.”
Sheila didn’t know what to say. Could he really think she had something to do with these deaths? Her mouth dropped.
“There’s something else, chief,” Randy said. “Something you might not be aware of.”
“What’s that?” He turned to face Randy, who was glowing.
“Allie and Harold were seeing one another. Both were getting a divorce so they could be together,” he said.
“We knew they were in the same room together, but privacy dictates . . . a little decorum,” Matthew said with a lower voice.
“We’ve looked up some of this stuff on the Web,” Paige said. “It’s a bad divorce situation all the way around. But John, Allie’s ex, is not on the cruise.”
“But we have a list of nine men on board who are not attached to women, as we figured that they would be the most likely culprit,” Randy said.
“Really? Where did you get this i
nformation?” Matthew said.
They explained how they had worked with Annie to come up with the list.
“It’s a good idea,” Matthew said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Well, you do have other things on your mind,” Randy said, with a note of flirtation in his voice.
Sheila’s cell phone rang and she stepped aside to answer. It was DeeAnn.
“So did you find the killer yet?”
Chapter 27
Annie checked on the brisket, the scent of which was filling the house. It was browning nicely. The boys and Mike were out for a while, so she decided to look up Harold Tuft’s wife, Sharon. It was disappointing. She seemed to have led an exemplary life; no arrest records. But that didn’t mean much when it came to murder—the human condition continued to fascinate. The woman she was writing about, Mary Schultz, who killed her father, was not someone you’d think of as a murderer. She’d never done anything illegal her whole life. She simply snapped one day and chopped her father to pieces.
Gruesome. And scary. How far was the woman pushed to lead her to that moment?
So Annie went back to her passenger list to see if Sharon Tuft was on it. There were three Sharons, but none of them were Tufts. Annie returned to her computer and tried to find a record of Sharon Tuft’s maiden name, and there it was: Milhouse. Sharon Milhouse was on the passenger list. Annie’s stomach clenched.
She picked up her cell phone to call Vera. She was unable to get through once again.
So she tried to text Vera instead.
Harold’s ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse, is on the passenger list. Your killer?
Send.
Annie had no idea that it would be so difficult to reach her friends on this cruise. It was kind of maddening, but they’d be back by midweek, in time for Beatrice’s Christmas bazaar and then for Christmas itself the following week.
Annie shut off the computer and grabbed her purse, remembering that she needed to pick up more potatoes. She bundled up in her coat, hat, scarf; it was cold outside and the last time she checked it was still snowing.
The cold met her with a punch when she walked out of her house. She lived close to the grocery store, about two blocks, but it was so cold that she thought for a moment about driving. But by the time the car warmed up, she could be at the store, so she walked, with the new-fallen snow soft and powdery beneath her feet. A smoke scent filled the air as she walked down her block. Several houses were using their fireplaces or woodstoves and smoke curled from their rooftops.
Annie wrapped her scarf tighter around her face. Dang, it was cold. One more block to go.
A halfhearted snowman was in the yard of the Jenkins family, which made Annie smile. This was not a good snow for building. It was soft and airy, giving off little sparkles when light hit it in a certain way. The skies were completely overcast—moonstone gray.
Annie smiled as an older couple passed her on the sidewalk, right before she turned into the grocery store parking lot. Walking down the aisles of the store, she heard someone call her name and turned to find Beatrice with several bottles of wine in her hand.
“How do?” Bea said. She looked distracted. Maybe annoyed. Annie was getting good at reading Beatrice.
“I’m good. Just picking up more groceries for tonight,” Annie said.
“Oh yes, Hanukkah. Well, have a good one,” Bea said.
“Thanks. How are you and what are you up to?”
“I’m okay. Heading over to this committee meeting. I’m hoping some wine will calm them all down,” she said, and clicked her tongue.
“Good luck with that. What do you hear from Vera?”
“I talked with her a couple of hours ago. She seems worried about Sheila.”
Annie nodded. “But what about the murder investigation?”
“Investigation?” Bea said. “There really won’t be one until the FBI gets on board tomorrow. That ship’s security team doesn’t have their act together.”
“I sent Vera the name of Harold Tuft’s ex-wife, Sharon Milhouse. She’s on the passenger list,” Annie said.
“What about the ex-husband?” Bea asked.
“He’s in jail for embezzling from Allie’s company, so he’s not involved at all.”
“Mercy,” Beatrice said. “Do you think a woman could have killed them both?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few years, and more so now that I’m writing about the Schultz case, it’s that women are very capable of murder,” Annie said.
“I think you’re right,” Bea said after a moment. “I’ve always thought there might be more of them out there than what we know. Women are smarter than men and don’t get caught.”
That statement sent chills through Annie.
Chapter 28
As Beatrice walked to the library, carrying her brown paper bag with wine bottles clunking against one another, she noted that the snowfall was picking up. It didn’t look like a thing had been done to the streets or sidewalks to clear the snow away. Good thing she had her boots on.
Milhouse. Now, why did that name seem so familiar? She sifted through her brain. She couldn’t think of one person whose name was Milhouse. Yet the name felt like it was one that she knew. Ah, well, chalk it up to old age. You couldn’t remember everybody you met in eighty-four years of living.
Beatrice loved the library. It was one of the newest buildings in town, built in 1985. The old library was now an office building full of lawyers and architects. The new library was light filled and bright; Beatrice never liked dark libraries, other than the fact that they held books in them.
Milhouse. Hmmm. So familiar.
She walked into the meeting room and everybody was there, for a change.
“Let’s get this shindig going, shall we?” she said, and set the bottles of wine on the table.
After the meeting, two emptied wine bottles later, the women gathered their paper and pens and handheld devices holding their calendars and important numbers, chitchatting as they moved along. Beatrice hated the chitchatting. If she didn’t love this town’s history so much and feel so strongly about feeding the poor, she’d not be involved with this bunch at all.
As she walked out of the library, she was surprised by how much snow had fallen. As it was getting darker, the snow took on a blue cast. She glanced off to the right, at the heart of Cumberland Creek, which was snow-covered and twinkling blue.
“Hey, Beatrice,” she heard a male voice say.
It was Detective Bryant. They said he’d gotten another job in Charlottesville and would be leaving town soon. She didn’t know and she didn’t care enough to find out.
“What?” she replied, pulling her scarf in closer around her neck.
His mouth twisted. “We need to chat.”
“About what?”
“About this scrapbooking cruise.”
“What? Why does that concern you?”
“I really can’t tell you that right now,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers.
“I mean, they are heading for Grand Caymen. You’re in Cumberland Creek,” she said, baffled.
“I know that, Beatrice,” he said with a bite.
“Watch your tone, young man.”
He smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you want to know?” They fell in walking together toward Beatrice’s dusty rose Victorian home.
“I know someone won a prize—”
“It was Sheila,” Bea said. “A very prestigious prize.”
He nodded. “A prestigious scrapbooking prize?”
“Why, hell, Bryant, I don’t know anything about scrapbooking, but they say it’s a top honor.”
“What’s your sense of these folks, these, ah, scrapbookers? Is it highly competitive?”
Beatrice chuckled. “I doubt it. I mean, it’s made of women who are making scrapbooks about their families. Why would it be competitive?”
“No, I’m not talking about those scrapbookers. I’m talking about s
crapbooking as a business.”
“What are you getting at, Bryant? What has happened?” Beatrice asked impatiently.
“All I can say is this cruise has more links to Cumberland Creek than Sheila Rogers,” he said. “And now that there have been two murders . . . and then this other thing came up. I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
“What other thing?” Beatrice asked.
“I can’t tell you right now. But what I can say is that it leads back to Sheila. If you can, please tell them to be very careful.”
“Careful about what?” Beatrice persisted.
“Look, Beatrice, I can’t tell you,” he replied.
“You can’t expect me to tell them that without answering questions. Questions I can’t answer,” Beatrice said, “because you won’t tell me.”
“You’re one of the smartest women I know,” he said, after a few beats. “You must know that there are some things I can’t share.”
Beatrice warmed and smiled, allowing the tension between them to subside. She knew she was smart—but it was good to know he knew it, as well. But what he didn’t have to know is that she wasn’t going to give up so easily.
“Care to come in?” she asked him.
They stopped in front of her house.
“I have cookies,” she said, and grinned.
“Oh man, Bea, you know I’d love to, but I need to get going,” he said.
“Well, hold on, Bryant. I’ll get you a bag—you can take some cookies with you. Spirit of the season and all that.”
He twinkled. Bryant was a man who enjoyed food. Particularly sweets.
Beatrice went into her home and noticed Jon at the kitchen table. “I’m making a goodie bag for Bryant,” she said.
Bryant was coming up behind her. “Oh man, it smells so good,” he said as she pulled out the cookies and began placing them into the bag. “So rich.”
“That’s Vera’s recipe. She loves her chocolate,” Beatrice said, and handed him the bag. “Now you going to tell me what’s going on?”
A Crafty Christmas Page 10