Chapter 70

Vera had been playing detective, and it resulted in a new scrapbook for Beatrice. She’d been racking her brain for weeks as to why her mom never shared many photos from Paris. Then it came to her one morning while she was feeding Elizabeth scrambled eggs. Her daughter asked for Jon, who made a kick-ass scrambled egg.

It was then that she figured out that Beatrice must have more photos and that Jon was in them or had taken them. So, one evening while Beatrice and Jon were out together, Vera sneaked into her house and her computer, downloaded all the photos. Jon was in many of them. There they were at the Eiffel Tower. Jon’s arm was placed naturally across Beatrice’s shoulders. Beatrice was beaming. She looked twenty years younger. Vera could not deny that her mother had been extremely happy since Jon came to town.

“I’m almost finished with this one,” Annie said. “Wow. I can’t believe Bea was at the Louvre and didn’t mention it.”

“Uncharacteristic,” Vera said, taking the last drink of eggnog. “I think she was trying to come to terms with the whole Jon thing. I mean, he was there. And at some point Paris became all about Jon.”

“I think it’s fantastic for her,” Sheila said, took another sip of eggnog, and burped a little. “Excuse me.”

“She’s going to be shocked when she sees this,” DeeAnn said, reaching for a gingerbread cookie. “What fun.”

“It’s going to be a great Christmas,” Vera said. “Elizabeth, Jon, all of us together. It’s so much fun playing Santa.”

“What about Tony?” Annie asked, dropping her scissors.

“Oh, that’s over,” Vera said in a tone that she hoped let her friends know she really didn’t want to talk about—because she did not. She didn’t know what happened between them, but did know that Tony was not the man for her. Neither was Bill. The surprising truth was that for now she liked being alone with her daughter. She liked her life.

“Too bad,” DeeAnn said, getting up from the table with her empty glass for a refill of the eggnog.

“Careful,” Sheila said, smiling. “Don’t have too much. You know that’s spiked.”

“No kidding,” DeeAnn said and laughed.

“Speaking of things being over,” Paige said, gathering up all the stickers and ribbons from the table. “Are they going to be able to make the charges stick on Zeb?”

“I don’t know why not,” Annie said, handing Vera the last page of the Paris scrapbook.

“You never know. You get lawyers involved, and God knows what they will come up with,” Paige said.

Nods of agreement around the table. Holiday music filled the room.

“I woke up the other night from another strange dream. Not like the one I had before. Just strange. There were several redheads in it,” Vera said after a few minutes. “I’m not sure I’m ever going to get over this.”

“It’s funny. We all thought the red hair had something to do with the murders, and it turns out it didn’t,” Sheila said as she held up a page for Vera to slide a page protector over. “It turns out it was a simple reason. They knew too much. The fact that they both had red hair was happenstance.”

The women gathered in a half circle around Vera and Sheila, checking the completed scrapbook—all in black and white. Stunning. Sheila turned the page to the Eiffel Tower pop-out that she’d worked into the book.

“That’s delightful,” DeeAnn said.

“I’d never even have tried it if it wasn’t for Cookie’s book. I thought if she could do it, so could I,” Sheila said.

An empty hush came over the Cumberland Creek Scrapbook Club. They searched one another’s faces for answers. Where was Cookie? What did it all mean? The book, the dreams, her involvement?

“I’ve been thinking about her scrapbook,” Annie said. “At first, I thought it was just a spiritual journaling exercise. But sometimes when I think about it, that book was full of clues. The mountain. The crystal. The map. We just didn’t know it.”

“Hindsight,” DeeAnn said.

“I also think it was clear that she studied this place. She was here for a reason. So . . . I guess she’s gone for a reason, too,” Annie said, blinking back a tear.

“Have some more eggnog,” DeeAnn said, taking her glass. “I’ll get you more.”

Vera placed a big red velvet bow on the black album. It was edged in silver. The black, the red, the silver, all came together in a classic visual feast. “I’m not going anywhere. I was born here, and I guess I’ll die here.” She pressed down on the bow and looked up at all her friends looking at her. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.” She laughed.

“Oh, well,” Sheila said, “that’s good to know.”

Vera looked around the table as the Cumberland Creek Scrapbook Club members finished up their holiday treats before strolling down the street with the scrapbook for Beatrice. Vera thought of the past few months and everything.... Hell, they had even been in jail. Oh, but it wasn’t all bad. There were some moments that Vera loved: DeeAnn knocking over the man on the mountain, which still made Vera smile; Paige sitting cross-legged on the jail cell floor and refusing to give her name at first to the police; Sheila wagging her finger in Detective Bryant’s face; and hearing about Annie smacking Zeb across his face in DeeAnn’s Bakery. As Vera looked around the table, she had to wonder what they would get into next.

“Are we ready to go?” Sheila asked. They gathered their coats and bags.

They walked together down the street, laughing and chatting, as the snow fell. Beatrice’s pink Victorian house looked something straight out of a Christmas greeting card—beautiful white bows in each of the windows and a huge wreath on the front door. Vera gave it a knock.

“What do you want?” Beatrice said when she opened the door. “What do the scrapbook queens want with me?”

“We have something for you, Mama.”

Vera watched her mother’s face as Beatrice gradually realized what they had done—in the midst of all the turmoil and the hectic holiday season, these women had artfully placed photos in an album for her.

“What?” she said, as if still trying to make sense of it all. Then it gradually washed over her face. The joy. And for the first time in years, Beatrice was rendered speechless.