Scrapbook of the Dead

Beatrice punched the company name Hathaway Transatlantic Employment into the search engine. It had a nice Web site, very sophisticated. But what she wanted was a phone number. Aha—there it was. She grabbed her phone and dialed.

“What are you doing?” Jon said and Bea shushed him. He stood nearby with his hands on his hips.

“Transatlantic Employment, this is Linda Smoke. How can I help you?” the pleasant voice said on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, my name is Beatrice Matthews Chevalier and I live in Cumberland Creek, Virginia. One of your workers was recently killed here. Her name was Marina Martelino. There’s a group of us in town that would like to send condolences to her family. Is that possible?” Beatrice asked.

“What are you asking? For an address?” Linda said.

“Yes, I’d like the address of her parents.” Parents that have lost two daughters here in Virginia, where they were sent to work to send home money to help out the family. Beatrice’s stomach tightened.

“One moment please,” Linda said.

Jon gave up his stance and sat down on the couch next to Beatrice. Weird 1970s music played over the phone as the minutes ticked away.

“Mrs. Chevalier?” Linda Smoke interrupted the groovy music.

“Yes, I’m still here,” Beatrice said.

“I’m sorry. I can’t find any records for Ms. Martelino.”

“Maybe they have been misplaced. Or—are you certain you have the right agency?”

“Yes, yes, I’m certain.” Beatrice was trying not to show her impatience.

“May I take your phone number and get back to you? I’ll continue to search when I can,” Linda said.

“Mighty nice of you,” Beatrice said and then gave her phone number. “Now, are you in Mexico?”

“No, Ma’am. The agency is housed in China.”

“Well, I do thank you for your help. Folks here just want to reach out to the family.” Bea was tempted to add and I can’t believe how difficult this is.

“Kind of you,” Linda Smoke said.

After Beatrice hung up the phone, Jon said, “No address?”

“Marina’s files have been misplaced,” Beatrice said.

“I smell something—how you say?—fishy,” Jon said. “Misplaced files? Everything is on the computer these days. I don’t understand.”

“Maybe not in China,” Beatrice said.

“But an international employment agency, surely,” Jon said.

Beatrice thought a moment. “You’re right. Why would she not want to give me the information? I’ll call back and find out.”

Beatrice dialed the number. No answer. None. The phone rang and rang. She slammed the phone down. “All I wanted to do is send my condolences, but this is a bit much. You’d think I was asking for the moon.”

“No answer?” he said. “Maybe it’s nighttime there and the woman has gone home for the day. Let’s try again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me,” Beatrice said.

Beatrice’s phone rang. It was Mike Chamovitz.

“Sorry to bother you, Beatrice,” Mike said, “but Annie is out on a story and I’ve gotten a call from a client who’s in town and wants to meet for coffee. I can tell her no, but it would be a good thing if I could tell her yes. The boys are in bed. I’d really appreciate it if you could stay here until Annie or I can get back home.”

“A client this time of the evening?” Beatrice asked. Mike was a pharmaceutical sales rep.

“Very unusual,” he agreed.

“Well, of course I’ll be there. But where’s Annie?”

“She had a meeting with the sheriff and something came up,” Mike replied.

“The Martelino case?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But duty calls,” Mike said. “See you in a few?”

“Of course,” Beatrice replied.

“What is it?” Jon asked, leaning in toward her.

“I’m going over to watch Annie’s boys,” Beatrice said, getting up from the couch. She found her purse and keys. Jon was on her heels.

She frowned. “What are you doing? You almost knocked right into me.”

“Sorry, but I’m coming with you, of course.”

She reached over and touched his cheek. “Thank you, Jon.”

On the walk over to Annie’s house, they were quiet. They walked past the Jensens’ yard decorated with dancing but ghoulish ghosts, backlit, providing an eerie ambience. Their new neighbors had decorated with huge mock spiderwebs in their tree and big furry spiders strategically placed. Another neighbor had made a fresh-looking grave and headstones with bloody hands reaching out from the ground. Beatrice had thought she was in the Halloween spirit by carving a few jack-o-lanterns to sit on her front porch.

As Beatrice and Jon walked along, there was not much to say as the chilly autumn night circled them. Half a moon hung in the sky and stars twinkled at them. Beatrice’s old heart hung heavy. She couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation and fear, even as she reached for her husband’s hand.