Chapter 17
Beatrice and Jon looked forward to Saturday nights with their granddaughter when they babysat while Vera was at her weekly crop meeting. But they were also happy when Elizabeth finally went to bed. The child was exhausting. Bea was ready for bed way before Elizabeth. Jon, on the other hand, was still playing around on the computer.
Beatrice sat in her chair reading the newest Louise Penny mystery and Jon sat in front of the computer reading intently.
“What are you doing over there?” Bea asked.
“Reading about gangs in small towns. It’s troubling. I don’t think we have gangs like this in France.” He looked at her with a sideways glance and a grin.
“The hell you don’t,” Beatrice said. “Maybe you should be reading about gangs in Paris or Mexico City.”
“Mexico City?”
“That’s in Mexico.”
“Yes, of course it is, but we are in Cumberland Creek.”
“Yes, but the murder victims were from Mexico, right? So maybe we can learn something about where they lived. Maybe it will give us a better understanding of why the women were here,” Beatrice said.
“They were probably here because wherever they grew up was terrible. They were very poor and lived in terrible conditions. They thought America was, how do you say, the land of opportunity,” Jon said.
Beatrice’s stomach sank. What Jon said was probably true and that was what made it all the more tragic. What could she do? She felt obligated to do something. She couldn’t not help out. It was the Southerner in her. It was frustrating because there was nobody to take a casserole to, nobody to offer a shoulder to. What must the girls’ parents feel like?
“Jon, we need to find out where to send our condolences. Maybe we can help their family somehow.”
Jon’s face softened. “What a lovely thought. You, my love, have a big heart.”
Beatrice grinned. “Let’s keep that between us, shall we?”
He went back to the computer and she to her book.
That didn’t last long. Bea looked up. “I don’t know much about Mexico at all. Here I am, eighty-five years old and there’s so many places in the world that I know nothing about. Ed, my first husband, and I traveled around the states a bit. And there was my big trip to Paris. But life gets so busy. It all goes by too quickly to visit every place you might like to.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Jon said.
“Well, hand me the phone.”
After Jon passed it over Bea dialed Vera’s cell.
“Yes, Mama?” Vera said.
“I want to send condolences to the murder victims’ family. Anybody have any address?”
“Well, how would I know?”
“Ask Annie, would you? I know she’s there,” Beatrice said.
“Hold on,” said Vera.
A few seconds later, Annie’s voice came over the phone. “Hey Bea, how are you?”
“Feeling bad about those girls who were killed. I want to send their folks something. Can you help me out?” Beatrice asked.
“I can try. Right now, there’s not much to tell. As soon as I find out who to contact, I’ll let you know,” Annie said.
“Why is it such a big deal? Why doesn’t someone have their mother’s address?” Beatrice said, exasperated.
“Pamela might,” Annie said after a minute. “But it’s complicated. Privacy issues. Immigration issues.”
“Are you saying they were here illegally?”
“No. Pamela said they were legal. But Marina was her employee and there are legal guidelines for that. I plan to talk to Pamela this week. Maybe we can get somewhere. I’d like to reach out to their family, too, even if it’s just to send a card, you know?” Annie said.
“Land’s sakes. Guidelines,” Beatrice said. “Guidelines for everything. Why do they have to make things so complicated?”
“I can’t answer that, Beatrice,” Annie said and laughed.
“Well, please let me know when you know something. Now, go ahead and get back to your scrapbooking. Sorry to interrupt.”
“You are never an interruption, Bea. Good night.”
Jon was deep into reading something on the computer. When Bea got off the phone he piped up. “Fascinating report on gangs in rural America. They are trying to figure out how gangs start. But no matter how it starts, it’s clear that young people are targeted. One key factor is many of the gangs in rural areas are close to a major highway.”
“I’ve always hated Highway 81. They say there’s a lot of drugs transported there.” Beatrice yawned. She wasn’t sure what she wanted more—sleep or that last piece of apple strudel.
Of course, the strudel won out.