Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (11 page)

Not that I was searching for a guy.

My unsuccessful attempt at gathering information not only left me frustrated, but also late in starting dinner and I had invited my grandmothers over. I stopped at the grocery store and bought ready-made fried chicken. Homemade macaroni and cheese wouldn’t take long, and I could throw a salad together in a few minutes.

Once home, I gathered up the bags of groceries and balanced dinner, my purse, and the keys while I opened up the door. Where was Steve or Hank now? No one ever lurked when a person needed help with the groceries.

I plopped the bags on the empty countertop, then hurried upstairs to change from the nice blouse I wore to work into a Mountaineers t-shirt. I was a messy cook. The biggest clue to what I made for dinner was my shirt.

As I was twisting my hair into a messy bun, the phone rang. I let the answering machine take the call.

Returning to the kitchen, I removed the chicken from the grocery store’s self-service bag and arranged the pieces on a serving platter. At least the main entrée could look pretty. I filled a pot with water and set it on the stove.

The doorbell sung. Turning the knob on the stove, I set it on high then raced for the front door. My grandmothers arrived early to ensure dinner got made.

I tugged open the door and shouted an enthusiastic hello. “Hey Gram—”

The grin froze on my face.

Detective Roget leaned against the doorframe, looking me up and down. “I hear you have questions for me.”

Everyone in this town, except for the murderer, had a hard time keeping secrets. I stood in the middle of the threshold. “I don’t have anything to say to you. I went to the police station to verify something Karen England said.”

“Is that so?” He pulled out a small notebook from the pocket of his jacket. “I bet I’m right to assume this has something to do with a certain case I’ve asked…” He held up his index finger. “Let me correct that, told you, to stay out of.”

“I am staying out of it. The reporter came to me and made some allegations about Marilyn. I decided I should check into what she said.”

“And what would those allegations be?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you know because you helped plant them into her story.”

“You think well of me don’t you?” His sarcasm came through loud and clear.

Sizzles popped in the background. I groaned and ran into the kitchen.  The water started boiling. Hard. Grabbing a potholder, I removed the lid to calm the hot bubbling liquid. I blew on the roiling water. For some reason I always thought it sped up the cooling process.

Praying I didn’t burn myself, I dumped in the box of macaroni then took the cheese from the refrigerator.

“I guess I don’t need to call the fire department.”

I spun around. Detective Roget, cell phone in hand, stood in the kitchen and glanced around the area. The open floor plan allowed him a look at my living and dining room. The dining room I had converted into a craft area was messy and disorganized.

“The water just boiled over,” I said.

“You shouldn’t leave unattended items cooking.”

Viciously, I grated the mild cheddar cheese into a bowl. “I thought my grandmothers were at the door. Not you. You were the one who asked questions and distracted me.”

“You were the one who came by the police station and played amateur sleuth.”

I almost dropped the cheddar. I placed the remainder of the block down then went to refrigerator. I yanked open the door and gazed inside, stalling until I had a good response. Or at least until Roget forgot what he said.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Does it occur to you, Miss Hunter, that I’m quite capable at doing my job? People read way too many books where the damsel in distress solves the case and the day.”

I slammed the door and turned around to face him full on. “I’m not in distress. And how would I know how capable you are when you arrested the wrong person? You jumped to the first conclusion you could. If what I said can be used against my friend, then why can’t what I’ve learned help her get out of jail?”

“Because this isn’t Monopoly. There isn’t some kind of get out of jail card up for bartering.”

“I’m not bartering. I want you to see the truth. Sometimes the truth isn’t just what you hear. It’s about what you don’t.” I stirred the pasta.

“Now I get you.” The low tone rumbled from Detective Roget. He rested a hand on my shoulder, kneading the muscle with gentle fingers. “Listen, Faith, you’re not to blame for your friend getting arrested. My case is based on a lot more evidence. Evidence you don’t know about.”

The relaxing touch lulled the anger I had at him. But I couldn’t allow it to continue. Stepping away, I tilted my head and looked at his face. His rugged features softened and compassion lurked in his green eyes.

“I can’t mention specifics. But I will let you know Marilyn was seen talking to Michael before—”

“He was murdered. I read that. How do you know that person isn’t lying? Maybe Annette Holland made it up so you wouldn’t suspect her. Why wouldn’t a murderer lie?”

“The person I talked with is very reliable. Even you’d agree. You have to realize I’m not the bad guy here.” He walked to the front door and paused with his hand on the knob. “And for the record, I’m available.”

For the two hundredth time during dinner, my grandmothers exchanged the who’s-going-to-talk-to-her look.

I placed my fork onto my plate. “What do you want to ask me?”

Hope linked her hands together and rested them on the table. “I noticed the detective stopped by. What did he want?”

“To ask a quick question.”

The evasiveness increased their concern. I read the we-should-tell-Steve message floating between them. I smiled, hoping it eased their worries. “It was a quick, harmless question. All resolved. No problems.”

“Are you sure?” Cheryl stood and cleared the table.

“Yes.” I pushed my plate away.

“He probably just wanted to know why you visited him,” Hope said.

I gaped at her. “I didn’t go visit him.”

“I heard you stopped by the police station.”

“Not to see him.  I needed to ask some questions.” 

Cheryl shook her head and sighed, the sound a weight on my heart. “Faith, didn’t you promise us that you’d stay out of this?”

“I can’t believe Bobbi-Annie told you. That can’t be proper procedure.”

“Bobbie didn’t say anything to us,” Hope said soothingly. “Her momma was in the back dropping off dinner for the officers and heard you.”

The chair scraped against the tile floor as I scooted backwards. I picked up my dishes. “With everyone knowing everyone else’s business in this town, I’m surprised the real murderer is still running around.”

I dropped my plate, glass and silverware into the sink. It was a good thing I preferred colorful plastic dinnerware than china. I turned the faucet full blast.

“You know,” Cheryl’s voice carried over the running water. “That is a good point.”

I turned the water off.

“Cheryl, don’t encourage her.”

“Think about it, Hope. Not much goes on in this town that someone doesn’t hear and see. Kids around here know if they’re going to cut school or pull some kind of shenanigan, they best head a county over because their mommas are going to hear it from somebody.”

“So you think this person isn’t a local?” I asked.

Cheryl shook her head. “The locals watch outsiders even more than they do their own.”

“Then how come no one saw anything?” I asked.

“Maybe they did.” Sadness filled Hope’s voice. “And we just can’t face it.”

I clutched the sponge, dishwater dribbled onto the floor. “You think Marilyn killed Michael.”

“Honey, I don’t know what to think. But the police don’t go around arresting people because they can,” Hope said.

Heaviness settled into my heart as my past flickered in my mind. I turned from Hope and went back to doing the dishes. “This time they are.”

Hope stood beside me and wrapped an arm around me. “If the article in the paper is correct, why didn’t Marilyn tell you she argued with Michael that day?”

“Because it didn’t matter. She didn’t do it.”

“I don’t think Marilyn should’ve asked you for help. Her lawyer should hire a private investigator.” Anger, an unusual emotion for Hope, shook her voice.

I fixed my eyes on my grandmother. Grandma Hope looked exhausted. She couldn’t approve of me involving myself in an activity leaning toward dangerous. We needed something else to think about, bond over, besides my sleuthing issues.

“How about we have an impromptu crop?” I smiled at my grandmothers.

They glanced over into the craft area. Cheryl seemed to consider it, but Hope shook her head. My grandmother probably thought crafting equaled cleaning as the disarray bordered on chaos.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’m kind of tired tonight,” Hope said.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Times like this reminded me my grandmothers were getting older. One day they wouldn’t be here. The fear of utter aloneness skittered along my nerves and my heart raced. Without them, I’d have no one on Earth who loved me. 

Hope hugged me. “I’m fine. The last two weeks of working late nights to get ready for the show wore me out. I just need to catch up on sleep.”

I looked at Cheryl. She winked and left with Hope. The wink said that’s-all-there-is-to-it brought some relief. I watched them cross the yard and then go into their house. Once they were safely inside, I shut my door and went into the kitchen. Work first, then play.

After finishing the dishes, I walked into the craft area and stood in the middle of the room. Glancing around, my shoulders slumped forward with the truth of all the cleaning I had to do. Evidence lingered from my frantic night of putting together layouts for the Art Benefit Show.

Bits of different colored ribbon littered the blond wood laminate floor. On the table, small pieces of cardstock filled the basket I used for scraps. In the middle of the table, full sheets of pattern paper and cardstock were stacked to near skyscraper heights. Open magazines took up the small floral couch against the wall. My bottles of flowers, brads and gems were stacked haphazardly on the large table and the shelves bolted into the wall.

From the distance of the kitchen, I didn’t get the full effect of what a disaster zone I created in my cropping area. Well, no time like the present for turning chaos into calm. I plucked the basket of scraps off the table, went over to the small couch, shoved the magazines aside and sat down. Most of the scrap pieces were too small and creased for use on another project. I dumped the contents of the basket into the trash.

Gathering up bottles, I returned them to the proper shelf. Using my hands, I swept the bits of ribbons and unusable trimmings into the wastebasket stationed at the end of the table. I eyed the leaning tower of paper. Divide and conquer. I cleared off the remainder of the table and started sorting the paper by color and pattern.

The edge of a photo caught my eye. Gingerly, I pulled it out from underneath the stack of pages. I looked down at myself at the Renaissance festival. In the background of the picture, Steve was captured as part of our family. Every time I turned around, my grandmothers insisted on including Steve in our family gatherings. I wondered how Steve’s dad felt about his son’s calendar being booked solid with Hunter/Greyfield family events. I’m sure his dad would like to spend time with his only child. Steve’s mother died a few years back. He and his stepmom didn’t quite get along from the conversations I overheard between my grandmothers. Without his dad, Steve would be alone. 

But without my grandmothers—and Steve—I ran the high risk of being truly alone in this world. My mind caught that thought and reeled it in. Maybe my grandmothers’ matchmaking efforts were because they saw that reality in my future. Since I moved back home, I kept a distance between others and myself. I had friends. I engaged in their lives, but kept mine private. No one understood I lived that way to protect them.

Collapsing onto the couch, I clutched the photo as memories flooded over me. Trapping me. My grandmothers’ dream for me could never happen. Entering a relationship required an honesty I couldn’t give. Even to my grandmothers who had given up everything for me.

Because of Adam. Because of myself.

By the time I realized I was a pawn in Adam’s life, our finances and future were tied. I trusted him. I loved him. He saw me as a naïve girl from West Virginia whom he could charm and control—and one who held a security clearance benefiting his sideline business.

From the first moment Adam introduced himself to me, I was smitten by the older, handsome man. I never questioned anything he told me. Until it was nearly too late.

I shuddered and pulled myself away from the morbid thoughts.

On the bright side, I never told my grandmothers about him as I wanted our marriage to be a surprise for them. Well, it turned out as more of a surprise for me.

I stood and wandered to the front window and stared out into the vast darkness. Not even one star glimmered, leaving the world ink black. To West Virginians, faith, family and country meant everything. How would my grandmothers be treated once it became known their granddaughter—even unknowingly—betrayed those principles?

There was nothing that could be done about the past except live with it. I deposited the picture into a drawer and got cleaning, focusing on the here and now.

With the amount of time reorganization was taking, I’d call it a night before I completed one page. Clean today, scrap tomorrow. My stomach rumbled. I needed something comforting. Preferably with chocolate. Homemade chocolate chip cookies sounded perfect.