Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (2 page)

TWO

Fog swirled around the Allegheny Mountains on Saturday morning. A fine layer of whiteness dipped into the valley as if the city moved up a few notches during the night and Eden was now closer to heaven. Pinpricks of light broke through the haze. In a few hours, the mist would burn off to leave the day bright and engaging.

Surrounded by mountains, the town of Eden was a mixture of franchise stores, office buildings, farms and quaint Victorian style buildings. The town couldn’t decide between evolving into a bustling metropolis or staying true to its roots of a farming community. The loss of landscape, faster pace of living, and rise in crime caused distrust to bloom and lines were drawn in the community. The farmers blamed the problem on the artists who wanted more tourists visiting, and the artists blamed it on the tech people who wanted to enter into the ‘new’ century. Though everyone took credit for the higher paying jobs and better services.

The drive to the convention center took longer than expected. It appeared everyone in town was at the Art Benefit Show or ABS as it morphed into when texted and tweeted. 

I turned into the parking lot and finally found a space at the far end of the last row. Every choice had a consequence, and this was mine for hitting the snooze button one too many times. I switched my beige wedge sandals for dusty rose canvas sneakers. Comfort out ranked cute when a walk turned into a cross-country hike.

I opened the trunk and removed my large brown and pink striped artist tote. I hauled the heavy leather strap onto my shoulder and started across the parking lot.

“Faith, wait!”

I peered through the evaporating mist and spotted Marilyn. I really needed a cup of coffee before I heard about Michael. Again. I was starting to want to hack the man into little pieces myself.

Marilyn rushed over to me. “I’m really sorry about my rant during the crop. I worked on some layouts this morning. I promise all the people remained in one piece.”

“Divorce will do that to a woman.” I offered an unrestrained smile and mentally patted myself on the back for the quick forgiveness I bestowed.

“Michael says that woman’s baby isn’t his. He wants us to try counseling. I agreed.” Marilyn dropped her bomb and hurried away.

I gaped at her back. A blare of a horn got my feet moving again. I ran and caught up with her. “You don’t believe him? You can’t. There is no way you can consider getting back together with the louse.” I shifted the strap of my tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Weren’t you the one talking about forgiveness?”

“Sure, but that meant not chopping up all your photos.”

“A decision like this isn’t cut and dry when you have children.”

“Your kids are teenagers. They’ll understand.” I gave her the look my grandmothers’ gave me when I ignored their wisdom. “What are you teaching your children by accepting that kind of treatment from Michael?”

“That I love them more than I can hate someone.” She stomped away but I followed after her.

“Marilyn, no one is questioning your love for your children. Heck, everyone knows you’re a great mom. You have terrific teenagers. And terrific and teenagers aren’t two words usually linked.”

“Liz has been crying for days over the divorce. Mark actually considered not going to an Orioles game with his father. I won’t make my children feel it’s disloyal to me to love their father. Besides, maybe that woman is lying and not Michael.”

“But you don’t know that.”

Marilyn shot me a triumphant smile. “And you don’t that Michael is.”

Touché.

We reached the sidewalk and our conversation stopped. The smell of brewing coffee and fresh baked pastries started my stomach rumbling. Hitting the snooze button also required crossing breakfast off the morning to-do list.

Steve Davis headed toward me carrying a cardboard cup. A tool belt hung around his waist, the metal gizmos clanging with each step he took. “Faith, I’ve been waiting for you.”

The man looked lethal in faded dark blue jeans and a t-shirt. I usually saw him in suits and khakis. Even on the weekends his normal attire was business causal. Not like today…bad boy biker. His shaved head added to the edgy look.

I swallowed my sigh and took my gaze from the man and placed it on the cup of coffee. Also sigh-worthy.

Marilyn tugged the strap of my tote off my shoulder. “I’ll start setting up while you flirt with Steve.” She continued into the building.

I accepted the coffee from Steve. “I’m not flirting with you. Just being polite since you waited for me.”

His expression remained neutral though a twinkle glittered in his deep brown eyes. “I volunteered to help your grandmothers today. They asked me to walk you to your booth. Here I am.”

“I can find my way.” I took a sip of the coffee and nearly burned my tongue.

“I have a hard time denying a request from Hope and Cheryl. They worry about you.”

Poor, unknowing man. Pairing Steve and me together motivated my grandmothers, not worry. Their matchmaking plan had topped every to-do, resolution and prayer list since I moved home fourteen months ago. They turned on the fragile, old women charm whenever Steve and I entered the same orbit. A wasted effort but I treasured the care and love motivating their antics.

I scanned the large open area and tried locating the Scrap This booth. The art gallery arena was spectacular. Bright, bold signs directed attendees to different exhibits and fabulous art displays. Fans could easily spot their favorite artists and make their way to the booth.

“This is great,” I said. “The setup makes it very easy to move around the space.”

“Your grandmothers did a good job organizing the traffic flow.” Steve draped his arm around my shoulders.

My heart fluttered and I ordered the treacherous organ to stop. What woman wouldn’t be thrilled at the attention? But I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was unavailable. My heart still continued at the more rapid pace. A heart was a fickle thing.

Marilyn ran over, exasperation on her face. She raised her eyebrows as she stared at Steve’s arm. “Faith, you’re needed at the booth.”

I stepped away from Steve. “That’s where I was headed.”

He suppressed a smile and waved goodbye. “I’ll let your grandmothers know you’re here safe and sound.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Marilyn looked heavenward and shook her head. “One of Linda’s layouts was damaged. She stored them without page protectors and one layout with brads poked a hole in the corner of a picture of her husband and son. She ran off in tears toward the restrooms. Sierra is trying to fix the page. And talking about Sierra, she arrived with the Hooligans. Hank’s working security today here at the show. Then some photographer is running around taking photos without permission and upsetting the artists.”

I stood on my tiptoes to get a better read of the signs. “I’ll go after Linda. Point the photographer out to the Hooligans and tell the boys we’ll give them a dollar each for every picture they can jump into or disrupt.”

“Soothing Linda can wait.” Marilyn grabbed my arm and tugged me down the aisle. “We’re behind on setting up and they’ve started letting attendees in.”

We only went two steps before Marilyn squealed and rooted her feet to the concrete floor. I slammed into her.

“What’s—” I shut up.

Marilyn’s coloring went from brandy red to colonial white. Her husband, Michael, walked down the aisle with his pregnant mistress at his side. He spotted us, blanched, then hurried in the opposite direction with the homewrecker weebling and wobbling behind him.

“That lousy prince-turned-into-a-poisonous-toad stood his son up. His son! He was taking Mark to the baseball game.” Marilyn huffed herself red again and started a verbal-roast of Michael. “Heaven better help that man because I’m going to kill him.”

She stormed off in a fit, leaving me to face the growing crowd. Smiling, I shrugged my shoulders and asked, “Does anyone know her?”

I hurried to the Scrap This booth—an empty booth besides Sierra.

“The boys are tracking down the photographer.  Should you really be encouraging them?” Sierra adjusted one of the framed layouts on the backboard.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No. And talking about ideas...” Sierra nodded toward Linda’s layout near the cash register, “…have any on how to patch up that mess?”

The gaping hole in the layout mocked me. The tear at the bottom of the photograph would be hard to fix without damaging the journaling box. “That’s the question of the day.”

“Wonderful. You’re as much help as Marilyn. What’s she doing?” Sierra grabbed a large box of adhesives and dropped it onto the ground.

“Trying not to kill Michael.”

“What?” She paused, the box cutter midway through the length of tape.

As I examined Linda’s layout closer, I explained Marilyn’s disappearing act.

“Maybe now she’ll reconsider the reconciliation,” Sierra said.

“My thoughts exactly.” I glanced at the products we brought with us. None complemented Linda’s layout.

Sierra hummed as she rearranged layouts on the temporary wall.

That had to mean one thing. I smiled. “Yesterday’s interview went well for Hank?”

Four months out of work took a toll on her husband’s confidence and their bank account. The unemployment checks and Sierra’s paycheck stretched to cover the basics but that would only last so long. I knew their hearts broke at the inability to buy a few inexpensive extras for their boys.

Sierra nodded. “He told me the builder was impressed with his résumé and talked to him for an hour. We should hear back Monday.”

Two mothers with toddlers stopped and asked about our classes. Sierra placed the cutter into her back pocket and walked them over to the table holding our class lists and sign-up sheets. A man entered the booth and I placed the damaged layout down to give him my attention. He examined one of the framed layouts.

“Is that fishing wire?” He squinted and leaned forward, his nose almost pressing against the plastic protecting the page.

“Yes.” I smiled and started explaining about mixed media. The man nodded and stepped back. Since he only wanted a yes or no response and not a discourse, I stopped talking and allowed him privacy to browse.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen. Everyone stay in the building and remain calm. The police are on their way.”

From what I could see, security guards approached the exits and stood in front of them. Hands rested at waists near the butts of their guns. 

The voice continued. “There’s been a murder!”

Pandemonium erupted.

THREE

They asked vendors to return to their spaces and ushered attendees into the main hall. Linda perched on the edge of a wooden stool nervously sipping a bottle of soda, the small drips of condensation splattering her pants. Sierra wrung her hands together and paced around our tiny space. I stood still and worried, the emotion churning the coffee in my stomach. Where were my grandmothers? Where was Steve? Where were Hank and the boys?

Grandma Cheryl was probably chasing Clyde around the building trying to make him victim number two. Who in the world announced a murder over a loudspeaker?  

I tried keeping myself calm and rational. Not something easy to do when a person feared for the lives of those they loved. Except for Steve. I liked Steve. I didn’t love him.

“They’re probably speaking with the police.” Sierra placed a comforting arm around my shoulder. We huddled together. “Hope and Cheryl are in charge.”

“You’re right. And Hank went with them or is rounding up the boys. He wouldn’t want them walking around alone.”

Those words brought little comfort to either of us. Were the police going to blame my grandmothers for what happened? Would they be sued? I spotted Cheryl, Hope and Steve walking toward the booth and relief flooded through me. They were safe. The tightness in my chest relaxed.

But where was Hank? The boys? I held onto Sierra.

A man in a suit stopped Steve to talk to him. They both looked in my direction, then walked toward me. That wasn’t good. Cheryl shot an angry glare at the suited man’s back.

“The boys?” Sierra asked.

Steve reassured her with a smile. “Hank took them outside. They were way too interested in the police.”

I grinned at Sierra. “I told you Hank was with the boys.”

Relief was visible on her face.

“I hate to break up the cheering section, but I have a few questions for you, Miss Hunter.”  The attractive red-haired man in the dark blue suit flashed a badge.

I squinted and studied the badge. This guy wasn’t a security guard. “Officer—” 

“Detective Roget.” He stood with his legs apart, a stance worthy of any cowboy bent on saving the town from the evil gunslinger.

I didn’t know if placing his hands so the jacket opened and revealed the gun was an involuntarily reflex or an act of intimidation. Crossing my arms, I locked gazes with him. From somewhere behind me, Steve groaned.

“When was the last time you talked with Marilyn Kane?” Roget asked.

Marilyn. Marilyn wasn’t with us at the booth. Marilyn was dead. Murdered. Detective Roget wavered in front of me, a whirling sound filled my ears. Strong arms wrapped around me and I leaned against a rock of warmth and comfort.

“Marilyn’s okay, Faith,” Steve said.

“Stay out of this, Davis.”

“I would if…” Steve didn’t complete the sentence, only tightened his hold around me.

I took in deep breaths and the room came back into focus. My grandmothers stood behind the detective. Cheryl’s hands bunched into fists. Hope gripped Cheryl’s shoulders to stop her from assaulting the detective. If he wasn’t asking about Marilyn because she was the victim then— 

“How was he killed?” I asked.

“Him? How do you know it’s a him?” A knowing smile tilted the corners of the detective’s lips.

“Because you’re asking about Marilyn. If she’s not hurt then it has to be about her husband.” For some reason, I couldn’t say dead. Murdered. “Why else would you be asking about Marilyn?”

Steve gestured for me to be quiet. Not something I was good at.

“With an ongoing investigation, the police ask the questions,” Roget said.

I stepped closer to the detective. “But you’re here to accuse Marilyn.”

The detective bestowed a half-smile, half-sneer on me. “You think that because of a little conversation you had with Marilyn?”

So, his search for Marilyn wasn’t just based on her being the spouse. I wouldn’t admit anything to Roget. “It’s because I’m not stupid.”

“Faith!” Hope gasped. She looked at the detective and shook her head. “We did not raise her to speak like that to police officers. I’m sure she’s just upset.”

  Great. My poor grandmother was defending her parenting skills. “Listen, Detective, I know the wife is usually the person blamed but it could’ve been someone else.”

“True.” Roget walked around the booth, appearing to take a mental note of our inventory.

“So you admit it was Michael.” Shivers raced up spine.

“Informing. Not admitting.” The detective studied the booth and then me. “You sure do have an unusual way of phrasing things. Maybe I should be questioning you.”

I tried keeping my anger from rising. “Now you’re accusing me of killing him?”

Steve stepped forward and rested a hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from the detective. “Faith, the detective has to assume everyone is a suspect. It’s not personal.”

“Of course it’s personal.” I pushed away from Steve. Being accused of crimes you didn’t commit attacked your character, your pride and your self-worth. How could it be anything else?

“I think we should have this conversation in private.” Roget took hold of my arm.

“Where are you taking my granddaughter?” Cheryl stepped in front of the detective.

“Steve, stop him,” Hope said.

“It’ll be okay,” Steve soothed my grandmothers. “Faith’s been here at the booth the whole time. She’s not really suspected of anything. The detective just needs to ask a few questions about Marilyn’s whereabouts.”