“Have you heard anything about the case?” Paige asked.
Annie shook her head.
“You’d think they’d have caught him by now,” Beatrice said. “Land sakes, we just about handed Bryant the murderer on a silver platter. I’m sure it was the guy who helped us change our tire. Or at least he knows about it. “
“You’re sure it’s him?” Paige said, passing around the plates.
“He’s a bit strange, Bea, but it doesn’t mean he killed those women,” Annie said.
“One thing is for sure. That man was bizarre, very different, not local, and he also was some kind of weirdo, with that damned rune in his ear.”
“Doesn’t mean he killed those girls, though,” Paige said, opening the box of pizza. “I heard they brought him in for questioning and let him go. Not enough evidence.”
“What? Why did they bring him in? Just because of what we said? That doesn’t make sense. Damn, I need to call Bryant. Maybe he’ll tell me why they brought him in,” Annie said, placing her pizza slice on a plate, licking her finger where some of the sauce had spilled.
From everything that Beatrice could gather while pretending to watch television, Paige was correct. The young man was questioned and had rock-solid alibis. Rumors were sometimes true. But there was something else. Beatrice strained her ears to hear. FBI? Halloween? Runes? Cults? What the hell was happening?
Annie hung up the phone. “They couldn’t hold him. His name is Luther Vandergrift. We knew that. He is new to the area. We knew that. He doesn’t drive, doesn’t have a regular job. He lives on some farm up around the hollow.” She took another bite of pizza.
“Now, let me think,” Beatrice said. “There aren’t too many working farms up there. It never was a good place to farm. It’s very rocky.”
“It’s a new farm,” Annie said.
“What are they growing?”
Annie shrugged.
No, Annie wasn’t herself. The old Annie was sharper than a tack and would have asked what they were growing—even if it didn’t matter. She was always curious. But maybe the pain medicine was muddling her mind.
“The police are on high alert, and a few undercover FBI members will be hanging around Cumberland Creek. Isn’t that strange?” she said.
“Why the alert? The FBI?” Beatrice said.
“Halloween,” Annie said after she swallowed her pizza. “They are expecting trouble. You know, copycats, pranksters, and stuff. Halloween is the night all the troublemakers come out.”
“I’ve heard that a lot of parents are keeping their kids home this year because of the killings,” Paige said.
“I can understand that,” Annie said. “But the rest of it? I don’t know.”
Beatrice didn’t know how to feel, either. “It seems like a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo to me. Halloween, indeed.”
Chapter 29
All the children were in bed—quite an achievement for all concerned—and the Cumberland Creek Scrapbook Club members, plus Beatrice, were gathered at Vera’s house. Vera’s house was the best spot because it was large enough for all of them. Elizabeth, once asleep, would sleep through a train wreck. Of course, she’d be up bright and early, but Vera was used to being tired now and considered it a normal state of being.
She looked at Cookie, who was unusually lovely tonight. Her hair was up off her neck, and she wore a jeweled band around her black hair. Rhinestones? Whatever they were, they sparkled against her dark hair and brought out the light in her green eyes, as well. Her earrings matched her blue dress. She was actually wearing a little mascara and eyeliner.
Cookie wore a long blue velvet dress, which cascaded to mid-calf and flowed around her as she walked. The dress had a low V-neck, which showed off her breasts. A bit too much for Beatrice, Vera knew, as she caught her mother looking at them and then at her. Beatrice rolled her eyes. But Vera thought Cookie’s breasts looked beautiful, so she tried not to pay attention to Beatrice’s antics.
The women—Sheila, DeeAnn, Paige, and Annie, along with Vera and her mother—gathered in a circle around Cookie, who stood next to a decorated table. Pictures of deceased people adorned the table, along with a huge seashell, a statue of Mary, candles, a wooden bowl of water, flowers, and silk scarves. Each piece of this altar alone was not unusually pretty, but gathered on the altar, the pieces had a simple beauty, and it touched Vera. Her throat tightened. What was wrong with her?
“I like to keep things simple,” Cookie said. “Some of my cohorts go way out. You won’t see fancy things or become overwhelmed with the ritual, I promise. But women have been meeting like this for generations, gathering around the fire or the altar. Some of the things here represent some deep connections we have and will always be so. Maybe some of you are already feeling a pull that you don’t quite understand.”
Vera’s eyes met Cookie’s.
“I want you to know that’s okay. You are safe here. If anybody feels uncomfortable at any time, please let me know.”
Vera loved the sound of Cookie’s voice—it was quiet, yet strong, never wavered.
“Why don’t we get on with it? I’d like to eat sometime before midnight,” Beatrice said.
The group giggled nervously.
“Okay, first I’ll call quarters, and we will remember our loved ones by sharing our memories,” Cookie told them. “It’s important to honor our ancestors tonight. Magically, it’s the night the veil between our worlds is the thinnest.”
“Hail to the North,” she said with her arms out, palms up, facing Vera’s fireplace. “Place of patience, endurance, stability, and earth.” She dipped her hand into a bowl of dirt and let it fall back into the bowl. “Hail to the East,” she said, picking up a feather and placing it in the bowl. “Place of wisdom, intellect, perception, and inspiration. Air,” she added with a flourishing of the feather.
Vera caught her Beatrice’s eye, seeing that her brows were knit. She saw Sheila’s face clearly, as well, and she seemed enraptured by the theatricality. Beatrice was not.
The fire in the fireplace popped, and some of the women jumped a little.
Cookie struck a match and lit the black candles that were on the table. “Hail to the South, place of passion, strength, energy, and willpower. Place of fire.”
Just then a knock sounded at the door.
“Bother,” Vera said. “Let’s ignore it. Go on, Cookie.”
Cookie picked up the water bowl, and the knock at the door became louder and more forceful.
“Vera Matthews,” a male voice said. “It’s the police. Open up please.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” DeeAnn muttered.
“I better let them in,” Vera said, feeling torn out of a nice, almost meditative mood. “This better be important.”
She opened the door to a sweaty, excited Detective Bryant.
“Where is your daughter?” he asked.
“What?”
“Elizabeth. Where is she?”
“Upstairs, sound asleep,” she replied, baffled.
“Can you please check?”
“Certainly,” Vera said, her heart and mind suddenly brought to full attention, away from the dreamy place she’d been enjoying. Pulse racing, she ran up the stairs. What was going on? Why were they concerned about Elizabeth?
She opened the door and looked in her daughter’s crib. The light of the moon was shining on her face. She twitched her nose and then was still once more.
Vera shut the door behind her and rushed downstairs.
“What on earth is going on?” Beatrice was saying.
“Cookie Crandall, you are under arrest,” the detective told her. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
Vera got to the bottom of the stairs just in time to see the kindest woman she’d ever known handcuffed.
“Now, you see here,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on. But Elizabeth is upstairs, sound asleep. Now, let go of Cookie.”
“No, ma’am. She’s under arrest for su
spicion of murder,” he said.
Cookie’s mouth dropped, and she looked pleadingly at her friends. “I never—”
“Don’t say anything,” Beatrice cautioned, shushing her. “We’ll call Bill, and he’ll have you home in no time,” she said and turned around to look Bryant in the eye. “And for the record, this woman couldn’t hurt a fly.”
He completely ignored Beatrice as he handed Cookie off to a uniformed police officer. She turned and looked at the women one more time before she left. Were those tears? She dropped her head and went with the officer. She looked defeated—as if all the air and beauty that were in her a few moments ago had evaporated.
Chapter 30
“What murder are you arresting her for?” Annie said after the uniformed officer took Cookie away, trying to keep her wits about her, even though she was exhausted and it was a dear friend that the officer was stealing away.
“Two counts of murder, one of attempted.”
“Cookie?” Vera almost shrieked. Her face was angry red. “It’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” the detective shot back at her.
Vera’s hand went to her mouth.
“Wrong,” Beatrice said. “You barged in this house and broke up a lovely party and sent Vera upstairs to look in on her child. You owe us all some kind of explanation.”
“Attempted murder?” Annie said suddenly. Click. Her brain was suddenly engaged. “Has there been—”
“Yes,” he said and suddenly looked deflated himself. He sighed. “You will all need to sit down for this. I imagine it will be out soon enough.” He shot Annie a glance of disgust. She glared back.
“The coroner’s reports came back a few days ago on Sarah. She was a mother, a very new mother. Might have had the baby a couple of months or so ago.”
The women stilled.
“Her family wouldn’t take too kindly to that,” DeeAnn said, sitting down.
“No. So, we decided a baby must be around, right? Either it’s buried and dead or someone has it. Maybe this person knows something, right?” he told them. “So I sent some guys up there, and suffice it to say, we found the baby.”
“Oh God,” Annie groaned, suddenly feeling an ache that only mothers knew, especially mothers who had lost babies. DeeAnn’s fleshy arm went around her. Annie was still sore from the emergency D and C; her emotions and hormones were reeling.
“Is it . . . ?” Beatrice finally said.
“A girl baby. Not dead. Very sick from exposure. She’s at the hospital. We’re not sure she’s going to make it.”
“What does this have to do with Elizabeth?” Vera asked.
“Maybe nothing, but the baby is also a redhead. And you had our number one suspect in your living room,” the detective explained.
Annie felt a chill travel through her. “But why Cookie?”
“We found this at the scene of the crime,” he said and dangled a plastic Baggie that held an earring that they all knew belonged to Cookie. “I’ve seen her wearing these. Very distinctive, wouldn’t you say? I’m betting DNA tests match Cookie to this earring perfectly.”
“That means nothing,” Sheila said. “She was camping on her retreat.”
“Yes, she could have dropped it, and an animal picked it up. You know that,” Annie said.
He nodded. “Yes. I know that. But this is what I have. It was right next to the baby. It’s all I have. Plus, I have people on my case wanting these murders solved. I need to look further into this.”
“That’s no reason to jump to conclusions,” Annie said.
“I’m not, believe me. How much do you know about Cookie?”
“What do you mean?” Annie asked.
“I mean, do you know much about her past? Have you ever looked her up online, for example?”
Annie shook her head. “No. Why would I? She’s a friend.”
“I have. And I can’t find anything on her. It’s as if she never existed.”
“Nothing?” Annie said, perplexed, her stomach tightening.
“Good Lord, do you think everybody has to be on the Internet?” Sheila said. “Cookie doesn’t even own a computer.”
“Really? And how strange is that?” the detective said.
“Not very,” Beatrice answered. “I just got one myself last year. And I know a lot of people who just don’t care for them.”
“No disrespect intended,” the detective said, “but you are eighty-one years old. I get that. But here is Cookie Crandall, young, probably schooled with computers, and she doesn’t own one?”
“This conversation has gotten absurd,” Annie said. “You’ve got no hard evidence against her. An earring? What’s that? The fact that she doesn’t own a computer? Isn’t traceable online? That’s lazy police work. I’m sure she will be home tomorrow.”
“Doubtful,” he told them and placed his hands on his hips. “We’ve been working with the FBI, and suffice it to say, I’m holding her without bail. Flight risk.”
“Now, you’ve just thought of everything,” Beatrice said.
“Believe it or not, I’m good at what I do. This is my job. I am not some kind of hobbyist.” He looked at Beatrice, then Annie. “You women need to back off. As I told you before, this is a potentially dangerous situation.”
“No chance of that happening as long as you have our friend in jail,” Vera said matter-of-factly. “I’m calling Bill right now. He’s a lawyer. He’ll have her out in no time.”
Chapter 31
Beatrice rarely went to the weekly scrapbook crops. First, she had better things to do with her time than sit around with a bunch of women playing with pictures and paper. Second, some of the scrapbook queens irritated her. But tonight she felt the need to be with other people. Besides, Vera took Elizabeth with her, not wanting her out of sight. Everybody in the town—especially the women—was uneasy and frightened even more with the latest news.
The detective had neglected to tell them everything yesterday. The whole story about the baby was disturbing, and Beatrice couldn’t shake it. The child was left alone in the woods. She was found naked and filthy. Almost dead from being exposed to the cold mountain air for at least eight hours. At least. The thought sickened and troubled Beatrice, shook her up more than the two murders. Who could do this to a baby? Who would do this? Why didn’t the father of this baby step forward, and where were its grandparents? To add to the mystery, the paper had quoted a local doctor, who said the baby was well tended before it was left on the mountain.
She had no idea what kind of sick individual could leave a baby like that, but she did know that Cookie Crandall had nothing to do with it. She was never sure how she felt about the young woman until last night, when she saw her whisked off by the police. She was odd and had some unusual ideas, but she was no killer.
Beatrice opened Sheila’s front door to find the scrapbookers seated around the table, quietly scrapbooking. It felt as if a cloud of doom were hanging over this usually jovial group. Beatrice took a seat and placed her scrapbook on the table in front of her.
“Hello.”
A murmur of hellos came her way. Beatrice looked over at Elizabeth, sleeping in a portable crib. Sweet.
“So what’s the news?” Beatrice finally asked.
“I finally reached Bill. He’s on his way back,” Vera said.
“They won’t let us see her,” Annie said and took a swig of beer straight from the bottle. Her dark brown eyes already looked glassy. Beatrice wondered how many beers Annie had downed.
“Evidently, they can hold her without visitors. I don’t get it,” Sheila said and threw her tape down on the table. “I just can’t imagine what she’s going through.”
Just then the door opened. A slightly disheveled Bill stood there with a key in his hand.
“Bill, how nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Vera said, sitting up straighter in her chair.
“I’ve already been to the station, Vera. Your friend is in a lot of troub
le. I can’t do much until Monday, but I’ll try to get her out on bail. They are saying she’s a flight risk. Any idea why?”
“No, Bill. We’ve no idea. We’re all as confused as could be,” Sheila said, reaching up to straighten her glasses.
“Here’s the key to her house.” He handed it to Beatrice. “She needs some personal items. She’s written them down.” He handed the wrinkled paper to Vera, but all the scrapbookers were already up and pushing their chairs in, going for purses and coats. “Really! Do you all need to go over?”
“What does it matter who goes?” Vera said to him. “Please stay here with your daughter, in case she wakes up. You remember her, don’t you?”
He rolled his eyes and sat down in front of the food. “I’ll be here,” he said, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cake with pink coconut icing, which seemed to call to him.
The women cleared the room in a matter of minutes and were soon standing on Cookie’s front door stoop.
Cookie lived on the edge of town, in a tiny one-bedroom cottage on a cul-de-sac. She had few neighbors. It was one of the older parts of town but had been almost forgotten in the town’s development and planning.
Not one of them had ever been to her house before.
Beatrice placed the key in the door. It was a little sticky. She jiggled the doorknob around, and it clicked open. All the women filed in behind Beatrice, who walked into the hallway and ran her hands along the wall to find the light switch. When the light came on, the women stood there, hushed by what they saw in the living room. Or what they didn’t see. There was no couch. No bookcases with pretty objects and books. No tables to hold glasses of iced tea. No afghans or quilts. Nothing on the walls.
It was unthinkable to this group of women, who all had their homes decorated to the hilt. DeeAnn showed off all her collections of porcelain dogs, which were everywhere in her home; Paige’s overdone Victorian decor more than filled the senses; Sheila’s penchant for country primitives was profound; Vera’s love of French provincial knew no bounds, with florals and color everywhere; and Annie’s walls were lined with books and pictures of her children. Even Beatrice, who was not much into decoration, loved art and had several paintings in her home that she cherished, along with antiques and collectibles from sixty years of her life with Ed and Vera.
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