Chapter 28
As Beatrice walked to the library, carrying her brown paper bag with wine bottles clunking against one another, she noted that the snowfall was picking up. It didn’t look like a thing had been done to the streets or sidewalks to clear the snow away. Good thing she had her boots on.
Milhouse. Now, why did that name seem so familiar? She sifted through her brain. She couldn’t think of one person whose name was Milhouse. Yet the name felt like it was one that she knew. Ah, well, chalk it up to old age. You couldn’t remember everybody you met in eighty-four years of living.
Beatrice loved the library. It was one of the newest buildings in town, built in 1985. The old library was now an office building full of lawyers and architects. The new library was light filled and bright; Beatrice never liked dark libraries, other than the fact that they held books in them.
Milhouse. Hmmm. So familiar.
She walked into the meeting room and everybody was there, for a change.
“Let’s get this shindig going, shall we?” she said, and set the bottles of wine on the table.
After the meeting, two emptied wine bottles later, the women gathered their paper and pens and handheld devices holding their calendars and important numbers, chitchatting as they moved along. Beatrice hated the chitchatting. If she didn’t love this town’s history so much and feel so strongly about feeding the poor, she’d not be involved with this bunch at all.
As she walked out of the library, she was surprised by how much snow had fallen. As it was getting darker, the snow took on a blue cast. She glanced off to the right, at the heart of Cumberland Creek, which was snow-covered and twinkling blue.
“Hey, Beatrice,” she heard a male voice say.
It was Detective Bryant. They said he’d gotten another job in Charlottesville and would be leaving town soon. She didn’t know and she didn’t care enough to find out.
“What?” she replied, pulling her scarf in closer around her neck.
His mouth twisted. “We need to chat.”
“About what?”
“About this scrapbooking cruise.”
“What? Why does that concern you?”
“I really can’t tell you that right now,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers.
“I mean, they are heading for Grand Caymen. You’re in Cumberland Creek,” she said, baffled.
“I know that, Beatrice,” he said with a bite.
“Watch your tone, young man.”
He smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you want to know?” They fell in walking together toward Beatrice’s dusty rose Victorian home.
“I know someone won a prize—”
“It was Sheila,” Bea said. “A very prestigious prize.”
He nodded. “A prestigious scrapbooking prize?”
“Why, hell, Bryant, I don’t know anything about scrapbooking, but they say it’s a top honor.”
“What’s your sense of these folks, these, ah, scrapbookers? Is it highly competitive?”
Beatrice chuckled. “I doubt it. I mean, it’s made of women who are making scrapbooks about their families. Why would it be competitive?”
“No, I’m not talking about those scrapbookers. I’m talking about scrapbooking as a business.”
“What are you getting at, Bryant? What has happened?” Beatrice asked impatiently.
“All I can say is this cruise has more links to Cumberland Creek than Sheila Rogers,” he said. “And now that there have been two murders . . . and then this other thing came up. I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
“What other thing?” Beatrice asked.
“I can’t tell you right now. But what I can say is that it leads back to Sheila. If you can, please tell them to be very careful.”
“Careful about what?” Beatrice persisted.
“Look, Beatrice, I can’t tell you,” he replied.
“You can’t expect me to tell them that without answering questions. Questions I can’t answer,” Beatrice said, “because you won’t tell me.”
“You’re one of the smartest women I know,” he said, after a few beats. “You must know that there are some things I can’t share.”
Beatrice warmed and smiled, allowing the tension between them to subside. She knew she was smart—but it was good to know he knew it, as well. But what he didn’t have to know is that she wasn’t going to give up so easily.
“Care to come in?” she asked him.
They stopped in front of her house.
“I have cookies,” she said, and grinned.
“Oh man, Bea, you know I’d love to, but I need to get going,” he said.
“Well, hold on, Bryant. I’ll get you a bag—you can take some cookies with you. Spirit of the season and all that.”
He twinkled. Bryant was a man who enjoyed food. Particularly sweets.
Beatrice went into her home and noticed Jon at the kitchen table. “I’m making a goodie bag for Bryant,” she said.
Bryant was coming up behind her. “Oh man, it smells so good,” he said as she pulled out the cookies and began placing them into the bag. “So rich.”
“That’s Vera’s recipe. She loves her chocolate,” Beatrice said, and handed him the bag. “Now you going to tell me what’s going on?”
He grinned and raised one eyebrow. “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “But I can tell you that you should check in with Steve Rogers.” She let him have the bag of goodies. “He can tell you whatever he wants. He’s a private citizen.”
“Steve?” Beatrice’s blood started to race. What could Sheila’s husband know?