Scrapped

Beatrice rarely went to the weekly scrapbook crops. First, she had better things to do with her time than sit around with a bunch of women playing with pictures and paper. Second, some of the scrapbook queens irritated her. But tonight she felt the need to be with other people. Besides, Vera took Elizabeth with her, not wanting her out of sight. Everybody in the town—especially the women—was uneasy and frightened even more with the latest news.

The detective had neglected to tell them everything yesterday. The whole story about the baby was disturbing, and Beatrice couldn’t shake it. The child was left alone in the woods. She was found naked and filthy. Almost dead from being exposed to the cold mountain air for at least eight hours. At least. The thought sickened and troubled Beatrice, shook her up more than the two murders. Who could do this to a baby? Who would do this? Why didn’t the father of this baby step forward, and where were its grandparents? To add to the mystery, the paper had quoted a local doctor, who said the baby was well tended before it was left on the mountain.

She had no idea what kind of sick individual could leave a baby like that, but she did know that Cookie Crandall had nothing to do with it. She was never sure how she felt about the young woman until last night, when she saw her whisked off by the police. She was odd and had some unusual ideas, but she was no killer.

Beatrice opened Sheila’s front door to find the scrapbookers seated around the table, quietly scrapbooking. It felt as if a cloud of doom were hanging over this usually jovial group. Beatrice took a seat and placed her scrapbook on the table in front of her.

A murmur of hellos came her way. Beatrice looked over at Elizabeth, sleeping in a portable crib. Sweet.

“So what’s the news?” Beatrice finally asked.

“I finally reached Bill. He’s on his way back,” Vera said.

“They won’t let us see her,” Annie said and took a swig of beer straight from the bottle. Her dark brown eyes already looked glassy. Beatrice wondered how many beers Annie had downed.

“Evidently, they can hold her without visitors. I don’t get it,” Sheila said and threw her tape down on the table. “I just can’t imagine what she’s going through.”

Just then the door opened. A slightly disheveled Bill stood there with a key in his hand.

“Bill, how nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Vera said, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“I’ve already been to the station, Vera. Your friend is in a lot of trouble. I can’t do much until Monday, but I’ll try to get her out on bail. They are saying she’s a flight risk. Any idea why?”

“No, Bill. We’ve no idea. We’re all as confused as could be,” Sheila said, reaching up to straighten her glasses.

“Here’s the key to her house.” He handed it to Beatrice. “She needs some personal items. She’s written them down.” He handed the wrinkled paper to Vera, but all the scrapbookers were already up and pushing their chairs in, going for purses and coats. “Really! Do you all need to go over?”

“What does it matter who goes?” Vera said to him. “Please stay here with your daughter, in case she wakes up. You remember her, don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes and sat down in front of the food. “I’ll be here,” he said, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cake with pink coconut icing, which seemed to call to him.

The women cleared the room in a matter of minutes and were soon standing on Cookie’s front door stoop.

Cookie lived on the edge of town, in a tiny one-bedroom cottage on a cul-de-sac. She had few neighbors. It was one of the older parts of town but had been almost forgotten in the town’s development and planning.

Not one of them had ever been to her house before.

Beatrice placed the key in the door. It was a little sticky. She jiggled the doorknob around, and it clicked open. All the women filed in behind Beatrice, who walked into the hallway and ran her hands along the wall to find the light switch. When the light came on, the women stood there, hushed by what they saw in the living room. Or what they didn’t see. There was no couch. No bookcases with pretty objects and books. No tables to hold glasses of iced tea. No afghans or quilts. Nothing on the walls.

It was unthinkable to this group of women, who all had their homes decorated to the hilt. DeeAnn showed off all her collections of porcelain dogs, which were everywhere in her home; Paige’s overdone Victorian decor more than filled the senses; Sheila’s penchant for country primitives was profound; Vera’s love of French provincial knew no bounds, with florals and color everywhere; and Annie’s walls were lined with books and pictures of her children. Even Beatrice, who was not much into decoration, loved art and had several paintings in her home that she cherished, along with antiques and collectibles from sixty years of her life with Ed and Vera.

But Cookie’s living room had nothing in it but a yoga mat, a block, some sitting cushions, and belts. A full-length mirror lined a wall and showed a reflection of a poster on the opposite wall of an Indian goddess dancing.

“I guess I know why we were never invited over. There’s no place to sit,” Beatrice said.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have much money,” DeeAnn said. “I wish she’d told us. Maybe I could have given her some work at the bakery.”

“No,” Annie said. “I don’t think that’s the case. I think she was fine. She was just living as simply as she could. That’s all. Let’s not read anything into this. Some people just live like this.”

“Evidently, she practiced what she preached,” Vera said. “She was always talking about living simply. Okay, here’s the list. We need her toothbrush and paste, some T-shirts and underwear from her dresser, her hairbrush, and some notebooks in her closet.”

The women scattered to find the objects.

Notebooks? Poor Cookie. She must think she’s not getting out anytime soon, Beatrice thought.