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 HAVE A BOO-TIFUL DAY. 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.
Chapter 30
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?” sh
e 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.
Chapter 31
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.
Odd.
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.”
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