Scrapped (15 page)

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Authors: Mollie Cox Bryan

Tags: #Cumberland Creek Mystery

BOOK: Scrapped
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Chapter 38
Annie was trying to focus her thoughts as she drove away from the prison. She was onto a connection that was making the detective nervous. Yes, he was an ass, but he wasn’t a stupid man. Mary was probably in the middle of a nervous breakdown, but she knew the events and the people of Jenkins Hollow. He knew that. He was hiding something.
So, the first murder victim was shunned. Which was probably why there was nobody at the funeral. What about the second young woman? Hmm. What was her name? Rebecca. Rebecca Collins. What was her connection to Sarah Carpenter?
She pulled off the road to make a phone call.
“Cumberland Creek Police,” a voice said.
“Hi, yes. This is Annie Chamovitz. I’m wondering if visitation has been set for Cookie Crandall.”
“No, ma’am. Sorry. No visitors.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
It was odd that they were not allowing Cookie to see anybody, although it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for someone they considered to be a flight risk.
Absurd. Cookie. A flight risk?
That was almost as absurd as Cookie even being a murder suspect. None of it made sense.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her red folder, which had notes and phone numbers from this case. An envelope fell out from among the sheets of paper. She’d scribbled on the back of it.
Yes. There it is, James and Doris Collins.
Their phone number was right there.
Annie keyed the number into her cell phone, wondering if it would work, since the Collinses lived in the hollow. But their place was just on the edge of it, and she might get a call through. It rang. Annie’s heart skipped a beat. She hated talking to bereaved parents. What could you say to them? Annie reached over and turned off the radio.
“Hello,” a soft feminine voice said.
“Mrs. Collins, I’m Annie Chamovitz. I write for—”
“I know who you are,” she said.
Oh.
“I was wondering if we could chat sometime. I know this must be an awful time for you, and I truly hate the imposition. But if there’s any information you could give, it might help someone else. Can we perhaps meet somewhere?”
She breathed heavily into the phone, hesitating. “I don’t know what there is to say.”
“Specifically, I’d like to talk with you about Sarah and Rebecca and their friendship.”
“Can we talk over the phone? I mean, I’m not sure I can get out right now.”
“The conversation could get a little personal, and, well, would you be comfortable over the phone?” Annie despised phone interviews. She felt she missed something if she couldn’t see her subject’s eyes, the way they moved, and so on.
“Yes, I think so,” Mrs. Collins said.
Okay.
“How long had Rebecca and Sarah been friends?”
“Almost since we moved up here. It’s probably been fifteen years. They both loved to play the piano, had the same teacher. They’d get together and practice.”
“It’s kind of unusual for a Mennonite girl to get close with a Baptist girl, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I mean, I guess it depends. They were mostly just playing music together, and I think Sarah’s parents trusted us,” she said, her voice cracking. “They live so close by, and my husband is a vet. . . . He’s helped with their animals.”
Aha. A connection.
“Did Rebecca know that Sarah was pregnant?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Collins?”
“You know, I’ve asked myself that same question. I suppose she did. I wish with all my heart they’d come to me, or some other adult, for help.”
“They were both eighteen and probably thought they could handle it. . . .”
“Yes. Except that an eighteen-year-old Mennonite girl is quite gullible. Well, even more so than most eighteen-year-olds.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they lack experience with men. A handsome young man tells you you’re beautiful . . . that he loves you. . . . It feels real and right . . . even if your family and church tell you otherwise.”
Well, that sounds like a lot of young women—not just Mennonites.
“I must admit that I’m a little confused about Mennonites,” Annie said.
“There’s an Old Order here—of the strictest kind. And that’s what Sarah’s family is. Then you have the others . . . the more modern Mennonites. Several different sects.”
“But someone mentioned to me that there’s a different kind of Mennonite in the Nest.”
“They are not real Mennonites. I know who they are talking about. They dress like them. But they are into other things. It’s very secretive.”
“Secretive?” Annie asked.
“Yes, in fact . . . Um, what is that guy’s name? None of us trust him. What is his name? Oh yeah. Zeb. Strange name. Strange man. Do you know him?”
Annie remembered him vividly, given that she’d just seen him at the funeral. She’d never forget the first time she saw him in person, saw his dark hair, startling blue eyes, incredible physique, and a pistol tucked in the front of his blue jeans. She also remembered his comments about Jews as she was driving him, Bryant, and Tina Sue to the police station. Even more sickening to Annie than the comments from the backseat was the way Tina Sue looked at him as if he were her master, her God. Several times Annie caught that look washing over Tina Sue’s face. Childlike. Puppylike. And it was unnerving to see it on a grown woman’s face as she looked at her husband. A man whose piercing blue eyes rarely looked at his wife—even as she sat in the station, being questioned, or when he’d sat in the courtroom. The trial had stretched for days. Zeb had shown up only sporadically.
“Yes,” Annie finally said. “I remember him from the trial. Someone mentioned that he grew up Old Order.”
“Yes, but an awful event happened to his family a long time ago. A horrible murder of some kind. And he left the church. People say he’s not been right since.”
Annie’s stomach tightened. There was no mention of this when she was researching for her book. Of course, most if it was focused on Maggie Rae and her family—not her in-laws. Could it be that she’d have to talk with Zeb again? Would she have to go back to Jenkins Hollow or the neighborhood there known as the “Nest” for this story? An image of Cookie in prison flashed in her mind. If she needed to prove that Cookie was innocent, she’d do it—but damn, she would not go alone.
“He sort of gave me the creeps,” Annie found herself saying.
Oh, great. So professional.
“Um, Mrs. Collins, do you have any idea who the father of that baby was?”
“No,” she said. “I wish I did. I keep thinking of it alone in the hospital, with no Mama, no Daddy, not a friend in the world.”
Suddenly, a black emptiness overwhelmed Annie. She hadn’t even known she was pregnant, had formed no attachment to the baby she was carrying. But the minute it was pulled from her, she was filled with gut-wrenching sorrow.
She and Mike had decided not to have another baby years ago. She should have gotten her tubes tied, or he should have gotten an operation. Just to be sure.
Her doctor had assured her that her feelings were normal. It was hormonal. Even if she didn’t know she was pregnant, her body and her hormones did. She took a deep breath. She thought of the baby in the local hospital and wondered what would become of her.
“Did the girls have any other friends?” Annie asked.
“Oh, let me think.... There was Hannah,” she said. “She works at the bakery. You know which one I mean? It’s at the foot of the mountain. Harmony Bakery. Yes. That’s it.”
“Thanks so much for speaking with me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” Annie said.
Yes. She knew Harmony Bakery, which drew in the tourists like flies. It was a bee in DeeAnn’s bonnet.
“The tourists just want to go in there and look at all the Mennonites and say they bought an authentic Mennonite pie. If they only knew the markup on that stuff. They are gouging people,” DeeAnn would say.
Now that she knew that Hannah worked at the bakery, Annie decided to check it out. It sat at the base of the mountain, so she wouldn’t have to venture too far.
Once there, she was surprised to see how big the bakery was compared to DeeAnn’s quaint little shop. Cases of pies, bread, rolls, and cakes were lined up in rows.
No trendy cupcakes,
mused Annie.
She smiled at the young man behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” he said, smiling back.
“I’ll take a sweet potato pie,” she said. “And is Hannah here?”
He placed her pie on the counter. She could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg. It glistened deep orange. If you were going to have a pie, you might as well make it a nutritious one, full of beta-carotene.
His brow knit. “Yes, she just went on break.”
“I’d just like to speak to her for a few minutes. That okay?” Annie said.
He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be back.”
When Hannah walked through the doorway and saw Annie, she smiled and looked away. “Can I help you?” she said, looking back at her.
“Hi, Hannah. I’m Annie Chamovitz. Remember? We met at Rebecca’s funeral.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said, rubbing her hands on her light blue heavy cotton apron.
She was extremely clean. Her nails were short, and her hair was pulled back in a bun with a prayer cap on top, not a hair out of place. Not an ounce of make-up. Not one piece of jewelry. Simple. Clean.
“Can I ask you some questions? I’m working on a story for a newspaper.”
“Me?” she sputtered, her hand to her chest, her face reddening. “Why me? I don’t know anything.”
“You knew Rebecca?”
She nodded.
“Did you know Sarah?”
She nodded again.
The door to the shop opened, and the bell went off. The young man came back in to wait on the customer. Annie glanced at him. Looked like a tourist, agape over the baked goods.
“Then I’d like to talk with you.”
“Well, okay. Can you come back to the break room?” she said, turning.
Annie followed her through the massive kitchen, which was a hubbub of cleaning activity. The huge ovens were being preened over, and two young men were running mops over the floor.
When they entered the break room, Hannah sat down at a table and motioned for Annie to do the same. There were magazines scattered on it—
Taste of the South,
old issues of
Gourmet
and
Saveur. Interesting.
“What can I tell you? I knew them both,” Hannah said.
“I know on the face of things they had several things in common. Jenkins Hollow. Red hair. Their age. They both played piano. What else?”
“Let me think. They both worked here at different points. Rebecca only helped out during the busy season. Sarah was a regular until . . .”
“Until she got pregnant and was shunned.”
Hannah’s eyes went to her hands as she nodded. This was painful for her.
“Hannah, I’m so sorry that you lost your friends. It must be hard for you,” Annie said.
She nodded and looked toward the door.
“Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know who the father of Sarah’s child is?”
“Even if I knew,” Hannah whispered, “I couldn’t tell you.” As she lifted a finger to rub her eyebrow, Annie noticed she was trembling. This wasn’t just sadness; it was fear.
“Are you in danger?” Annie whispered back.
Hannah shrugged. “We all are as long as someone is killing out there. Right?”
“Hannah, I can see you’re upset. When you feel better about things, give me a call so we can talk more.” She slipped her a card.
Hannah nodded as someone walked into the room. She sighed. “Back to work, Ms. Chamovitz,” she said and stood and slid the card into a pocket.
After leaving the bakery, Annie sat in her car in the parking lot and called Detective Bryant.
“Bryant,” he said.
“I’m at Harmony Bakery,” she said.
“Annie? That you?”
“Yes. This is an interesting connection.”
“This is a murder investigation. All I can say is, I’m working with the FBI and I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Annie hung up.
Nice.
She decided to check her messages. She heard the one from Beatrice about going to Sheila’s place, and she decided to stop by. When she walked in the door, she was surprised to find all the scrapbookers there, gathered around the table. Sheila and Vera had goggles on.
Sheila looked up. “Hi, Annie. How are you?”
“What on earth are you doing?” Annie said and squeezed herself into the circle.
“We’re trying to see what’s in this book,” Vera replied. “When I looked at it earlier, something flew into my eye.”

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