Chapter 7
Beatrice stood at her turquoise Formica counter and poured the brownie batter into her pan. Herb Alpert’s Christmas music was blaring in the background. She loved baking with the music on. She sat the pan aside and opened the oven door. The nut cups smelled done. She took in the scent of them and pulled them from the oven, sat them aside on the counter, and placed the brownie batter in the oven.
She planned to let the nut cups cool and then take them out of the pan. She checked the time: 11:35 A.M.
In the meantime, the phone rang. She saw from the caller ID it was Elsie, one of the women from the Christmas bazaar she was helping with. This year the historical society was helping raise money for the Cumberland Creek Area Food Bank and Beatrice was in charge, much to the chagrin of Elsie Mayhue.
“Hello, Bea, this is Elsie,” the voice said.
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to let you know that we’ve gotten another three vendors and I’m wondering if you think there’s space for one more.”
“Of course there’s room,” Bea said, thinking this woman really needed to learn to do things for herself.
“Okay, I’ll let them in and also let Leola know so that she can place their names in the program,” she said.
“Okay, sounds good,” Bea said, and hung up the phone just as the doorbell rang. She took a deep whiff of the rich scent of brownies as she walked into the foyer. Through the peephole she glimpsed two men she’d never seen before in her life. Standing on her porch, both were dressed in suits and one had a briefcase.
She opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Beatrice Matthews?” the taller man asked. He was blond, baby faced, and wore Clark Kent glasses.
“Yes,” she said, wiping her hand on her apron.
“Investigator Len Springer, and this is my associate Ben Waters.” He showed her his badge. “May we come in?”
“I don’t know,” Bea said. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk with you about a group of women you know who are on the Jezebel,” he replied.
“What’s that?”
Suddenly Jon was by her side.
“That’s the name of the ship that is holding a scrapbooking cruise,” the other agent said. “May we come in?” he asked again.
“I guess,” Beatrice said, and opened her door. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the living room area, which held two couches and several chairs. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”
“No, ma’am, but thank you,” the blond one said. “We’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure,” Bea said. “What’s going on?”
The other suited man sat down on her favorite chair, so she sat on the chair next to it, while the blond sat on the couch with Jon.
“We’ve been sent by our office, who was contacted by the cruise line.”
“I presumed,” Beatrice said.
“There was an untimely death on board the ship—”
“I know. I just spoke with my daughter. I don’t know what I can tell you about any of that,” Beatrice said.
“Is your daughter Vera Matthews?”
“Yes. Is she okay?”
“We think so. We’re not here about her. We’re here about Sheila Rogers,” the other man said. “She listed you as next of kin.”
“What? What about her husband? And is she okay?”
“We stopped by their house and he wasn’t at home. So we wondered if there was any information you could give us.”
“I’ve known her a long time,” Beatrice said. “Since she was born, as a matter of fact.” Did he say “next of kin”? Isn’t that what they say when someone dies? She grabbed her chest and repeated, “Is she okay?”
“This is so hard,” the younger, dark man said. “But no, she’s not okay. We regret to inform you that Sheila was killed this morning. We think it was food poisoning. We’re so sorry.”
Bea gasped. “No! There must be some mistake. I just spoke with Vera. She’d certainly have told me this.”
“It just happened,” one man said. “This morning.”
The other man reached into his bag and fumbled around with his paperwork. He fished out an official-looking paper and showed it to Beatrice and Jon. There was a passport photo of Sheila and a death notice from the cruise line. Attached to that was a report that the cause of death looked like poisoning. “The subject had gone to the infirmary complaining of stomach cramps approximately two hours earlier.”
Beatrice’s head spun. This didn’t make any sense. Certainly Vera would have told her if Sheila had been ill. Who were these men?
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to leave my home,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure that Sheila Rogers is still alive. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing or what kind of idiot you take me for—”
“Beatrice,” Jon interrupted, and reached for her hand. “Please calm down.”
She pulled away from him and stood up. “Out! Out! Before I get my gun after you! How dare you come into my home and spread such vicious lies.”
The men stood.
“Are you threatening federal officers?” the blond said.
“Hmph, if that’s even who you are,” she said. “And I’m giving you until the count of ten.”
“Mrs. Matthews—”
“Ten,” she said with a sternness that scared even herself. Damn, she still had it.
“Fine, we’re leaving. But we’ll be back,” the young man said.
“Nine,” she said.
The blond turned around to look at her. “We are sorry for your loss.”
“Eight,” she said.
After the men left and the door was shut, she dead-bolted it.
“What was that all about?” Jon said.
“I don’t know,” Beatrice said, her voice now quivering. “I’m going to call Vera.”
When Vera picked up the phone she seemed breathless. “Yes, Mama? Everything okay?”
“Everything is fine here, except that two FBI officers were here and claimed that Sheila is dead.”
“What?”
“Where is Sheila? She there with you?” Beatrice asked.
“No, Eric and I left the crop when she didn’t come back.”
“She didn’t come back?”
“She went looking for someone with Paige and they didn’t come back. We figured they found something else to do.”
“So you left the crop,” Beatrice said, trying not to raise her voice, but she heard the edge in it and hoped Vera did, too.
“Well, yes. Eric and I . . . were a bit tired and decided to nap,” Vera said.
“Nap, heh?” Beatrice said, and paused. She suspected there was no sleeping going on during their “nap.” “So you’re certain Sheila is okay?”
Vera didn’t answer right away and Bea heard shuffling going on in the background. “I don’t know anything for sure,” Vera said. “But we saw her an hour ago and she was fine.”
Beatrice didn’t know what to say to that. There was some kind of weird misunderstanding going on.
“Don’t you think that someone would have told us if something happened to Sheila?” Vera said after a minute.
“I don’t know, Vera. But you better go and find out, don’t you think?”