Chapter 4
The Cumberland Creek scrapbooking club quieted as the soft jazz music played and the sound of Sheila’s clicks on the computer dotted the soundscape, along with appreciative murmurs about the pie.
“Why would a young woman from Mexico have a scrapbooking page in her clutches when she was killed?” DeeAnn finally said after taking her last sip of wine. “I mean, that’s bizarre!”
“Not only is it bizarre, it could also be a clue,” volunteered Annie.
“What do you mean?” Vera said, her blue eyes wide with speculation. “How could it be a clue?”
“Maybe it didn’t belong to her. Maybe it belonged to the killer,” Annie said. “Or maybe she was just scrapbooking when she was attacked. I don’t know, but it could definitely be a clue.”
“Or maybe the page had poison on it,” Sheila said. “Maybe that’s what killed her—poison.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” Vera laughed. “You just better get it off your mind. The next thing you know, we’ll have Bryant and FBI agents and everybody and their brother hanging out here.”
“Maybe it will tell them more about her. Maybe she wasn’t who people thought she was,” DeeAnn chimed in. “Like with Maggie Rae. Remember? We found out a lot about her by scrapbooking about her. We also found out a lot about Cookie by looking at her Scrapbook of Shadows. Any word from her?”
Annie glanced at Cookie’s empty chair. Their old friend, Cookie, had been back in Cumberland Creek for a few months and sometimes joined the group, but since she was struck by lightning she had not been the same. She was under a doctor’s care for her memory loss. Annie nodded, twisting her mouth. She was annoyed by the situation—but she was certain she wasn’t as frustrated as Cookie herself, who described the way she felt as “lost.”
Annie had given up trying to make sense of Cookie’s “escape” from jail. She had been arrested under the suspicion of murder and one day just disappeared from her jail cell. Her claim was she hadn’t left on her own accord and had been struck by lightning sometime while she was away, leaving her dealing with profound memory loss. She was back, living off a steadily dwindling savings account in her little house at the end of a cul-de-sac.
“But this is just one scrapbook page,” Annie pointed out, keeping them on track. “And I have yet to see it. It could be any one of those things.” But it could also be nothing at all—which was probably the case.
Sheila closed her laptop, stood, and stretched. “There’s been some very strange things going on in this town. I’m just hoping it will calm down soon. I’ve got enough going on in my life without murder of a mysterious foreign woman on my horizon. I’m hoping the scrapbook page wasn’t a clue. I don’t want to have any more murder in my life.”
It was true; Sheila did have a lot on her plate. Her daughter Donna had been diagnosed recently with epilepsy and had decided to take time off from her design studies at Carnegie Mellon University. Sheila was tending her, plus running her household, scrapbooking business, and working for David’s Designs.
Annie knew how she felt. She wanted to be done with murder, as well. Just one more story. She meant it. She’d been itching to try other kinds of writing, rather than her journalism, like fiction, or maybe get back to writing poetry.
“Have you tried this chocolate?” Vera said to Annie, scooting a plate full of homemade chocolate toward her.
Annie bit into a truffle and her taste buds sat up at attention. The flavor was deep and rich, with a smoky hint of tea. “Oh my God. That is orgasmic!”
“What? Oh Annie, the things you say!” Sheila said over the laughter.
“Well, hell, if it’s orgasmic, I need a couple of ’em,” a red-faced DeeAnn said as she reached for some.
They all indulged and swooned over the chocolate. Vera’s new hobby was making chocolate—much to the group’s good fortune. Randy was helping her; he was a highly trained pastry chef, with a specialty in chocolate.
The thought brought Annie square back to him, wondering how he was doing after happening upon the dead body of his colleague.
“You know, Vera,” DeeAnn said, “why don’t you try to sell some of your chocolate at my shop?”
Vera waved her off. “I don’t think I’m ready to go pro. It’s just for fun.”
“Are you sure? You could make a little extra money,” DeeAnn said.
“Hmm, well, I’ll think about it. I certainly could use the money.” Vera’s dance studio had bounced back a bit from the bad economy, but it had never completely recovered.
“You won’t need to worry about money if you marry Eric. I mean, he is a doctor, ” Sheila said.
“Oh for God’s sake!” Vera snapped. “I’m not marrying Eric for his money. In fact, I’m not marrying him at all. If you’re so hell-bent on marriage and Eric, just marry him your damn self!”
They all looked up from their chocolate, pie, and scrapbooks. Sheila looked as if she had been smacked.
“That’s a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?” DeeAnn finally said.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Vera said. “She’s been on my case about this since he asked me to marry him. I said no. And I meant it.”
“On your case? I just want you to be happy.” Sheila flung her arms out.
“We all want you to be happy,” Annie said.
“Hell, we all want all of us to be happy,” DeeAnn said and lifted her glass. “To happiness.”
“Happiness, indeed!” Vera said and lifted her glass in return.