Scrapped

All the children were in bed—quite an achievement for all concerned—and the Cumberland Creek Scrapbook Club members, plus Beatrice, were gathered at Vera’s house. Vera’s house was the best spot because it was large enough for all of them. Elizabeth, once asleep, would sleep through a train wreck. Of course, she’d be up bright and early, but Vera was used to being tired now and considered it a normal state of being.

She looked at Cookie, who was unusually lovely tonight. Her hair was up off her neck, and she wore a jeweled band around her black hair. Rhinestones? Whatever they were, they sparkled against her dark hair and brought out the light in her green eyes, as well. Her earrings matched her blue dress. She was actually wearing a little mascara and eyeliner.

Cookie wore a long blue velvet dress, which cascaded to mid-calf and flowed around her as she walked. The dress had a low V-neck, which showed off her breasts. A bit too much for Beatrice, Vera knew, as she caught her mother looking at them and then at her. Beatrice rolled her eyes. But Vera thought Cookie’s breasts looked beautiful, so she tried not to pay attention to Beatrice’s antics.

The women—Sheila, DeeAnn, Paige, and Annie, along with Vera and her mother—gathered in a circle around Cookie, who stood next to a decorated table. Pictures of deceased people adorned the table, along with a huge seashell, a statue of Mary, candles, a wooden bowl of water, flowers, and silk scarves. Each piece of this altar alone was not unusually pretty, but gathered on the altar, the pieces had a simple beauty, and it touched Vera. Her throat tightened. What was wrong with her?

“I like to keep things simple,” Cookie said. “Some of my cohorts go way out. You won’t see fancy things or become overwhelmed with the ritual, I promise. But women have been meeting like this for generations, gathering around the fire or the altar. Some of the things here represent some deep connections we have and will always be so. Maybe some of you are already feeling a pull that you don’t quite understand.”

Vera’s eyes met Cookie’s.

“I want you to know that’s okay. You are safe here. If anybody feels uncomfortable at any time, please let me know.”

Vera loved the sound of Cookie’s voice—it was quiet, yet strong, never wavered.

“Why don’t we get on with it? I’d like to eat sometime before midnight,” Beatrice said.

The group giggled nervously.

“Okay, first I’ll call quarters, and we will remember our loved ones by sharing our memories,” Cookie told them. “It’s important to honor our ancestors tonight. Magically, it’s the night the veil between our worlds is the thinnest.”

“Hail to the North,” she said with her arms out, palms up, facing Vera’s fireplace. “Place of patience, endurance, stability, and earth.” She dipped her hand into a bowl of dirt and let it fall back into the bowl. “Hail to the East,” she said, picking up a feather and placing it in the bowl. “Place of wisdom, intellect, perception, and inspiration. Air,” she added with a flourishing of the feather.

Vera caught her Beatrice’s eye, seeing that her brows were knit. She saw Sheila’s face clearly, as well, and she seemed enraptured by the theatricality. Beatrice was not.

The fire in the fireplace popped, and some of the women jumped a little.

Cookie struck a match and lit the black candles that were on the table. “Hail to the South, place of passion, strength, energy, and willpower. Place of fire.”

Just then a knock sounded at the door.

“Bother,” Vera said. “Let’s ignore it. Go on, Cookie.”

Cookie picked up the water bowl, and the knock at the door became louder and more forceful.

“Vera Matthews,” a male voice said. “It’s the police. Open up please.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” DeeAnn muttered.

“I better let them in,” Vera said, feeling torn out of a nice, almost meditative mood. “This better be important.”

She opened the door to a sweaty, excited Detective Bryant.

“Where is your daughter?” he asked.

“Elizabeth. Where is she?”

“Upstairs, sound asleep,” she replied, baffled.

“Can you please check?”

“Certainly,” Vera said, her heart and mind suddenly brought to full attention, away from the dreamy place she’d been enjoying. Pulse racing, she ran up the stairs. What was going on? Why were they concerned about Elizabeth?

She opened the door and looked in her daughter’s crib. The light of the moon was shining on her face. She twitched her nose and then was still once more.

Vera shut the door behind her and rushed downstairs.

“What on earth is going on?” Beatrice was saying.

“Cookie Crandall, you are under arrest,” the detective told her. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

Vera got to the bottom of the stairs just in time to see the kindest woman she’d ever known handcuffed.

“Now, you see here,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on. But Elizabeth is upstairs, sound asleep. Now, let go of Cookie.”

“No, ma’am. She’s under arrest for suspicion of murder,” he said.

Cookie’s mouth dropped, and she looked pleadingly at her friends. “I never—”

“Don’t say anything,” Beatrice cautioned, shushing her. “We’ll call Bill, and he’ll have you home in no time,” she said and turned around to look Bryant in the eye. “And for the record, this woman couldn’t hurt a fly.”

He completely ignored Beatrice as he handed Cookie off to a uniformed police officer. She turned and looked at the women one more time before she left. Were those tears? She dropped her head and went with the officer. She looked defeated—as if all the air and beauty that were in her a few moments ago had evaporated.