“Usually, it’s their employer. Maybe a social worker . . . sometimes it’s landlords.”
Landlords. Hmmm. An image of Mr. Mendez, the landlord at the new apartments, came into Annie’s mind. Could he be a sponsor?
Annie shivered. If he was, God knows what kind of lives the Martelino sisters had been leading. And no wonder they’d ended up dead.
Chapter 35
Beatrice was unimpressed by Mr. Hathaway’s explanations. “They bring these young people here and track them for a year, then don’t follow up?”
“Let me be clear,” Mr. Hathaway said. “Many agencies like ours do nothing that first year. My father started the agency because he fell in love with a woman from India. Her family also needed to get out of the country because of a political situation in which their lives were threatened.”
“So that’s how this all began?” DeeAnn asked.
“It has evolved into a huge business,” Mr. Hathaway went on. “My father’s inclination was to help foreigners get out of bad situations, bring them here to work, and start new lives.”
“Sounds very altruistic,” Beatrice sad. “Except I’m not sure how I feel about them not getting a real salary that first year. Sounds like indentured servitude.”
“I understand completely,” Hathaway said, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “I know that’s what it sounds like. But that’s not what it is.”
“So what do you know about the Martelinos?” Beatrice asked.
The man looked aghast. “I know they were killed,” he finally said.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Beatrice said. “We wanted to send their family our condolences, but we’ve been unable to find out anything about them.”
Mr. Hathaway’s face reddened. “I am sorry about that, but there’s probably something you should know about them . . . well, they had no family. As far as I know, they grew up in an orphanage in Mexico City and were never adopted as children.”
Beatrice’s stomach sank. Lawd, it keeps getting worse. The young women had lived hellacious lives. The room was silent as the women exchanged glances. They had gotten part of the information they came for, but it wasn’t helpful. They wanted some sort of closure.
Why does it matter so much to me? Beatrice wondered. She hadn’t even known the young women. As she glanced around to the others gathered in the room, the thought struck her that it didn’t matter that the young women were perfect strangers—tragedy could affect any one of them. In times of grief, it was bits and pieces of comforting gestures that kept you going.
They were still talking about something, but Beatrice did not care to follow along anymore. It was as if the Martelino sisters had never existed. They came here for a better life and got killed, probably by some gang. What was the world coming to?
Annie looked at Beatrice with a sadness in her dark eyes. She must have been thinking similar thoughts.
Beatrice took a bite of her pumpkin chocolate chip muffin and let the flavor take her mind away from the young women with no family, save each other.
After the women had grilled him some more to no avail, Mr. Hathaway left, and DeeAnn was back to lying on the couch with her friends fussing over her. Beatrice asked if she was actually going to hire someone from the agency.
“I don’t think so,” DeeAnn said. “Lawd, if I could just have another pain pill. I have to wait until two to take the next one.”
“Why?” Beatrice wondered.
“Jacob is withholding them. I guess he thought I was using too many of them,” DeeAnn said.
“Well, how does he know?” Beatrice said. “Is he suddenly a doctor?”
“She was taking them willy-nilly,” Annie said. “She’s only supposed to take two a day. These pills are very addictive. Her husband is just concerned.”
“Humph. Did the doctor mention anything about whiskey? That will take the edge off,” Beatrice said.
“Her daddy always said it’s good for what ails you,” Annie said with a mocking tone that made them all laugh—including Beatrice.
“I’m willing to try anything,” DeeAnn said.
“Where do you keep your booze?” Beatrice asked.
“In the kitchen cabinet below the sink,” DeeAnn said.
“You better be careful mixing booze with those pills,” Annie said. “You’ll get all loopy.”
“Loopier than usual?” DeeAnn said and laughed.
“What do you think of all this, Annie?” Beatrice heard DeeAnn say as she opened the kitchen cabinet door.
“I’m not sure what to think. It sounds to me like Transatlantic is a hair away from involvement in human trafficking. The man can say what he wants and call it what he wants, but I’m betting everything is not as rosy as it sounds.”
“I thought he was real nice,” DeeAnn said. “Seemed like he wanted to help people.”
“He did seem nice,” Annie said. “But then again, he’s not the only person working in his company. And I’m not sure where that’s going to lead us in terms of the murders.”
Beatrice poured a glass of Jack Daniel’s and carried the golden elixir into the living room. “I agree. After all, it was someone here who killed them. We need to avenge these young women.” She handed the glass to DeeAnn.
DeeAnn drank from the glass. “Eww, that’s nasty stuff.” She turned to Annie. “What’s this I hear about you going to another crop tonight?”
“Word travels fast around here,” Annie said. “Yes, I’m going over to the Drummond house tonight for a crop with friends of Marina and Esmeralda.”
Beatrice stopped in her tracks. “What did you say?”
“I’m going to—”
“The Drummond house?”
Annie nodded. “What’s wrong?”
Beatrice told them about her own recent trip to the Drummond place.
“What an odd coinshidenshe,” DeeAnn said with a bit of a slur to her words.
“Loopy,” Bea said. “It doesn’t take much.”
Chapter 36
After everybody cleaned up, they all lingered a bit. DeeAnn took another sip of the whiskey. She was not fond of the drink, but she thought it might be taking the edge off her pain. “I’d love to go to that crop with you, Annie.”
“Maybe another time,” Annie replied. “After your back is better.”
“Plan on going back?” DeeAnn asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been to the first one yet. I can’t imagine scrapbooking two nights in a row. I’m pretty comfortable with our group the way it is. I’m wondering what these women might have to say about the Martelinos.”
“Get the scoop,” DeeAnn said. “You know, it’s kind of odd that there’s another crop going on across town . . . weekly, like ours. Almost like a parallel universe kind of thing.”
“We are not the only scrapbookers in town,” Annie said.
Cookie opened DeeAnn’s front door, walked in, and sat down on the edge of the couch where DeeAnn was propped up with pillows. They were all getting used to her wandering in and out of their houses.
“What are you going to do about that man?” Cookie asked. “I saw him leave.”
DeeAnn shrugged.
“You’re not going to hire someone from his agency, are you?”
“Hell, no,” DeeAnn said. “I don’t need any help right now and it seems like a whole lot of trouble.”
“I agree that something is not quite right there,” Beatrice said. “But he may not know that.”
“What do you mean, Bea?” Annie asked.
“Well, he’s the head of the company and seems to have romantic notions about it. His daddy starting it to help his momma’s people and all that. But it’s a huge company now. I’d wager he doesn’t know half the employees.”
“Good point,” Cookie said. “But I don’t know enough about the business to make an educated opinion.”
DeeAnn studied Cookie for a moment. The person sitting on the couch next to her was actually acting like herself . . . f
or the first time in months. The murder cases seemed to spark something in her. DeeAnn’s eyes momentarily caught Annie’s, who also seemed to notice the spark in Cookie.
Cookie cleared her throat. She had noticed the exchanged look. “For some reason, these cases really touch me. Young women, basically, without a family, without a past, trying to make their way. The more I think about it, the more I remember feelings I must have had. Sometimes images come to me and I’m not sure if they are quite memories.”
DeeAnn’s heart sank. Poor Cookie. Would she ever remember? Or was she destined to never know where she came from? The dead sisters and their story must be setting off some triggers for her.
“Their stories are so sad,” Beatrice said after a few minutes of quiet. She then slipped on her coat and left—which left Annie, DeeAnn, and Cookie still in the living room.
“You know, Cookie, I’ve often wondered how much you want to remember,” DeeAnn said.
Cookie lifted her head in surprise and looked directly at DeeAnn. “Sometimes I want to—other times I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid I’m not a very good person. Afraid of something I might have done . . . something not right,” she said.
A hush fell over the room.
“Oh now, Cookie,” DeeAnn said a few moments later. “You and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I know you’re a good sort. We all do.”
“That’s true,” Annie said. “You may have something mixed up because of the way you disappeared from jail. Someone took you, remember. You didn’t escape. And you surely didn’t hurt those girls who were killed, back then, if that’s what you’re thinking. They found the killer. He’s in prison now.”
“When I think I know myself, I know I couldn’t hurt anything,” Cookie said. “But other times . . .” She shrugged. “Sometimes I feel a darkness inside me. I don’t know what else to call it.”
“Oh goodness, honey,” DeeAnn said. “We all have that. You’re not alone. Who knows what any one of us is capable of? Good or bad.”
“Or what life has in store for us,” Annie said. “Look at Sheila and all of these changes she’s dealing with.”
“And DeeAnn,” Cookie said quietly.
DeeAnn suddenly felt a flush creeping over her. It was as if someone had opened a window to see right inside of her.
“DeeAnn?” Annie said, looking confused.
“Oh” DeeAnn waved her off—“it’s just me getting older. Thinking about retiring. Stuff like that.”
“Big stuff, DeeAnn,” Cookie said, reaching out for her hand. “I don’t know. I mean, look at me. I don’t remember much. I’m not an expert, but I think it’s important to acknowledge changes in our lives while we are living them. That’s the best way to move forward.”
No, DeeAnn wanted to say, it’s best not to look at anything too deeply.
Annie’s cell phone beeped. She picked it up and hit the TALK button. “Yes?” Her eyes widened. “Really? I’ll be right over. Oh. Then we’ll see you tonight.”
“Well, my word, you look like the cat that swallowed. . . something,” DeeAnn said.
“That was Randy,” Annie said. “Our friend Mr. Hathaway is at Pamela’s right now, arguing with her and some young man. I told Randy I’d go over there, but he didn’t think that was a good idea. I still might drop by. Randy’s trying to figure out what they are saying.”
“What do you mean by that?” DeeAnn asked.
“There’s a lot of Spanish being flung around,” Annie said, gathering her things.
“I thought Randy knew Spanish,” DeeAnn said.
“No. He speaks French, not Spanish, but he can make out some words. We’ll talk about it tonight. He’s coming with me to the crop.”
“Can I come, too?” Cookie asked.
“Of course,” Annie said. “Do you speak Spanish?”
Cookie shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Chapter 37
Annie was certain that the blue Cadillac parked outside Pamela’s Pie Palace belonged to Christopher Hathaway. So he was still there. Good.
She pulled into the spot next to the Cadillac, sat in her car, and waited. After about fifteen minutes, the door to the Pie Palace opened. Pamela was with Mr. Hathaway and carrying a box of something—it looked like files.
As the two of them walked over to Hathaway’s car, Annie opened her car door. “Hey.”
“Hi Annie,” Pamela said, smiling her perfect smile with perfect lips and perfect teeth.
“Do you need some help with that?” Annie asked, reaching out as Christopher Hathaway opened his trunk.
“I’m fine, Annie,” Pamela said and dropped the box into his trunk. “Just a bunch of old files to go into storage at Hathaway.”
“Why would you store your files there?” Annie said.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Hathaway snapped. “The way our company manages things is none of your concern.”
“Well, I—”
“It’s okay, Annie.” Pamela smiled again. “Why don’t you go inside and get some pie?”
“That’s what I came for, but I’ve lost my appetite,” she said and headed back to her own car. As she pulled away, she could have sworn she saw Pamela shove Christopher Hathaway.
Annie and Cookie picked up Randy from Elsie’s B and B.
“You’re right on time,” Randy said with surprise, placing his scrapbooking bag in the backseat next to Cookie.
Annie ignored the good-natured jab. “So what happened today?” she asked as he slid into the passenger seat.
“Well,” Randy said, shrugging, “I don’t know what to make of it, but Pamela was very upset. I’ve never heard her raise her voice like that before.”
Annie turned her signal on and then made a turn. “What exactly did you overhear?”
“I heard the word ‘sponsor’ and the word ‘money.’ And the name Jorge over and over again.”
“Jorge?”
“Yes,” Randy said. “He works at Pamela’s. Doesn’t speak much English, and he seems . . . I don’t know, kind of quiet.”
“What’s he do there?” Cookie asked from the backseat.
“A little bit of everything,” Randy said. “He’s harmless. Washes dishes. Helps with the supplies. Assists Pamela. Just whatever.”
“He can’t be that harmless if he was involved in the kerfuffle,” Annie said.
Randy thought a moment. “That’s true. That’s one of the odd things about all this. I mean, usually he’s so quiet and gets his work done. I wonder if it has to do something with Immigration.”
“Could be. We should check him out,” Annie said. “I’ll run him through my databases.”
“One more thing,” Randy added. “They did mention the Martelino sisters several times.”
Annie felt a chill creep up her spine.
“Of course he did,” Cookie said. “We asked him about them. I’m sure he’s unhappy with the attention. Even if he’s on the up-and-up, nobody wants that kind of attention.”
Annie pulled into the long driveway of the Drummond house.
“This is where we are scrapping?” Randy said, then let his jaw drop. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
“So did I,” Annie said.
“Beatrice did, too,” Cookie said as she opened her car door. “Beatrice told me she used to know this family very well.”
Randy stood for a minute as if he was remembering something. “Yes, I think I remember this place. Didn’t they used to sell apples?”
“You’re asking the wrong people,” Annie said, opening her trunk and lifting her bag out of it. Cookie also reached in for her own tattered bag of supplies.
“I’ll have to ask Mom about it,” Randy remarked.
The three of them walked up the sidewalk together. Leaves were scattered across the lawn and crunched beneath their feet. The moon was peeking through the clouds. The steps creaked as they ascended the porch. Laughter came from within t
he house.
Annie wasn’t sure if the place truly looked abandoned—but it did need a paint job. The paint on the clapboard had long ago faded away, giving the house a gray color that easily blended into the night.
She rang the doorbell and Irina answered. “Come in, Annie. You brought friends. Good!” She opened her arms wide and they all entered. “The crop is already happening. But there’s space for you all.”
They followed her into the dining room, which had been transformed since Annie had last been there. Six women were gathered around two long crop tables, four at one table and two at the other. Annie and her crew set up at the less crowded table.
“Everybody,” Irina said. “This is Annie Chamovitz. She’s a reporter. We met the other day. I told you all about her.”
Annie looked up and smiled at the women. “And these are my friends, Randy and Cookie.”
Cookie smiled and Randy nodded.
“Please help yourself to some food once you are settled in,” Irina said.
Annie turned in the direction Irina had gestured and saw a table brimming with food. A heavy, spicy scent filled the air and made Annie’s mouth water. Some of the croppers already had plates of food at their tables. Chips and salsa, paper bowls full of a stew that looked like chili, and flat bread with cheese and beans on it.
“The food looks and smells incredible,” Annie said, wandering over to the table and then seeing the plates of tiny colorful cookies and cakes. So pretty.
“Paciencia,” Randy said as he reached over and placed a round white cookie on his plate.
“You know it?” Irina asked.
He smiled and nodded. “Of course. We’d call them meringue cookies. I love them. Did you make them? They’re beautiful.”
“Yes, thank you. I enjoy making things look nice and pretty,” Irina said.
After they filled their plates and sat down at the tables to scrapbook, Annie took a quick glance around the tables. Except for one, the women were mostly young, in their twenties. Irina was the oldest.
One of the younger women held up her page with a photo of a baby on it, framed in purple.
“Is she yours?” Annie asked.
Scrapbook of the Dead Page 13