Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (6 page)

Steve crossed his arms in a protective, proprietary gesture that ticked me off.

“I really want to go home.” I shot a glare at Roget then at Steve. “So ask whatever you want so I can leave.”

“Not with Davis listening in.”

“Get on with it, Roget.” Steve placed his hands at his waist and stared at Roget, the defender stance coming through loud and aggravating.

“Aren’t you two on the same side of the law?” Maybe I should leave, let the two of them fight it out. “If this is supposed to be discreet, you both sure are getting the attention of the church members. Mrs. Newsome is going to add this to her blog.”

Steve and Roget turned. Mrs. Newsome was scribbling in her palm-sized notepad, a look of glee splashed on her face. Nothing like gossip material to get Mrs. Newsome fired up. By tomorrow, I’d either be dating Steve or Roget—or both—or a suspect in a murder investigation. It was nice knowing that at least on the web, I had an interesting life.

“Fine. I’ll go wait over by my car,” Steve said. He walked away grumbling under his breath.

Roget looked me square in the eyes. “How do you know I’m not from around here?”

“The fact you don’t know the standard operating procedures. The biggest threat in small town-life is the I’m-calling-your-mother card.”

“So that’s why one of the interview questions was where my mother lived and was her phone number easy to find.”

“What did you say?”

“It depended on the season and the routes of the cruise ships.”

“Your mother lives on a cruise ship?”

“You could say that.” Roget smiled, an uncomfortable looking gesture. “Since my parents’ divorce, she is either vacationing or performing.”

“Your mom is a performer on cruises?” She sounded like a fun lady. I bet her son took after his father.

“A singer.” Roget crossed his arms and morphed back into by-the-book detective. “I’m here to ask you questions not talk about my mother.”

“That’s a shame. She sounds like an intriguing woman.”

That comment brought out an unrestrained smile from him. “She is.”

An engine revved. A smirk grew on Roget’s face. “Your knight in shining armor?”

I waved in a dismissive manner toward Steve. “Like I need one.”

The smirk morphed into a small smile. “I have to agree. You do a pretty good job of standing up for yourself.” Roget saluted and then pivoted on his heel, leaving me speechless and confused.

What had the detective wanted?

EIGHT

Monday arrived too early. I slapped the button and shut off the alarm. Why had I told my grandmothers I’d open this morning? That’s right, our regular Monday morning opener, Marilyn, was unavailable for the foreseeable future.

Hope and Cheryl had a meeting at the bank. Sierra had to wait until her boys were in school before she came in. And Linda didn’t have her own key yet and got flustered when she dealt with veteran scrapbookers. Those customers became irate when they dealt with unknowledgeable staff.

I tried shutting up the questions that plagued me during the night. Why had Detective Roget hovered around my car on Sunday? To arrest me? Ask questions? Intimidation?

I crossed off arresting me as an accomplice since he walked away. It had to do with Marilyn’s arrest, but what else could he want to ask me about it? I told him everything I knew. Then again, maybe he doubted that since he had to force me to tell him in the first place. First, I avoided repeating what Marilyn said, then badgered him about the scissors disappearing.

Which reminded me, those spaces were still empty. I needed time to rearrange our inventory before customers arrived and questioned the empty shelf space.

After a quick shower, I yanked on a pair of gray jeans and a rose colored t-shirt. I grabbed a lightweight blazer then rushed down the stairs. I snagged a granola bar from the kitchen cabinet. Making coffee would wait until I arrived at the store.

Stepping onto my front porch, I kicked the newspaper behind a bush. Whatever Karen England had to say about Marilyn, I didn’t want to read. For a town named after God’s pure garden, the people liked operating on innuendos and rumors. Then again, believing the lies of the serpent was what got Eve into trouble, along with the rest of mankind.

The only problem was nowadays serpents looked a lot like friends, family, and others we loved. Had loved.

Like Michael and whoever killed him. Charming snakes that fooled you into believing they were harmless and struck at the first opportunity. Michael broke his wedding vows and flaunted it in front of his wife, then someone who knew of the affair used it to get away with murder.  I wouldn’t stand by and let someone railroad Marilyn. Been there and someone done it to me.

I needed a plan of action. One, preferably, that didn’t get me in trouble. I hadn’t the skills for a part-time sleuthing career, but I could learn. My job needed undivided attention, and that might hamper the investigation, but I did work for my grandmothers.

If they thought I was hanging out with Steve to hang out with Steve, they’d be thrilled and help me find the time. I just couldn’t let them know there was an ulterior motive. Guilt wiggled around inside of me. I was treading on dangerous ground. I hated being used, and now I was venturing into that area.

But I was planning on helping Marilyn. Making sure she wasn’t charged with murder, not forcing another person into paying consequences for my actions.

When I arrived at the store, Sierra’s car was in the parking lot. If she was here, Hank was still out of work. Since we had holes in the schedule because of Marilyn’s absence, I’d see if Sierra was interested in picking up those hours.

Scrap This would be stormed today as our customers stopped by to get the gritty details of Marilyn’s arrest. Nothing like tantalizing gossip to get a small town out and about.

But there was one easy problem I could solve, the empty scissor slots. Customers gloated about buying the last item but did not like staring at blank spaces. That meant they missed out and turned a happy customer into a voice of dissent.

What excuse could I use to explain the missing scissors? Recall? Contest? Donation? Or maybe I’d just direct all the women to Detective Roget. I’m sure the man didn’t want me lying.

I placed the key into the back lock and turned. Nothing. Great. I jiggled the key until both it and the lock cooperated with each other. I turned the willing knob and walked inside. I left the door unlocked so my grandmothers didn’t have the same trouble.

I maneuvered through the maze of boxes, parted the curtain, and headed for the cutting tools. Rulers were arranged on the hooks usually holding the scissors. I spotted Sierra behind the cash register flipping through a magazine.

Smiling, I headed toward her. “Thanks.”

Sierra slapped the magazine onto the counter. “For what, doing my job? I knew Marilyn usually opened on Mondays and after reading today’s article about Marilyn’s arrest, I figured you might not be up to coming in.” 

The heat from the windows warmed my back but I felt chilled. What exactly did the newspaper say that got Sierra fired up? I took a deep breath and hoped it settled the churning sea in my stomach. “I couldn’t tell you what happened.”

Sierra’s lips trembled as tears pooled in her eyes. “Marilyn is my friend, too. Why didn’t you say something when I called you yesterday? I feel like such an idiot. You still don’t trust me.”

Still don’t trust me.
The words twisted around in my conscience even as I tried ignoring the truth. I did trust my friends, just because I kept my past private didn’t mean I didn’t fully believe in my friends and family. Or did it?

I dragged a stool closer and sat down. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

The look in Sierra’s eyes spoke of her doubt.

I sighed. “Sierra, the detective warned me if I interfered in the case, I’d be in huge trouble. And I took that to mean not telling anyone anything. I didn’t even tell my grandmothers. Maybe if I thought about it, I’d have realized that saying Marilyn was arrested wouldn’t get me in trouble. It’s not like no one was going to find out.” I tried to keep emotions locked up, but the confession at the end trembled my voice.

Sierra’s eyes softened and she rested a hand on my arm. “What’s wrong, Faith?”

“It was my fault Marilyn was arrested.” 

“That’s nonsense. You had to tell the detective what Marilyn said.”

I heaved out a breath. “Marilyn blames me. She says I owe it to her to find the real murderer.”

Sierra’s mouth fell open. “She asked you?”

The bell above the door chimed. Sierra handed me a manila envelope. “Jasper dropped that off a little bit ago.”

I opened up the envelope. The inventory list of scissors. I dropped it into my purse, or as my Grandma Cheryl called it, my “getaway bag.” The newspaper lying on the countertop grabbed my attention. I read the headline:
Spousal Revenge. Cheater Dies
.

I couldn’t grasp if the headline meant the suspect was right or wrong for offing the cheating spouse. Not that Marilyn killed her husband. Though it sounded like the public held some sympathy for Marilyn—if she did commit the crime.

I started reading the article, but the photograph accompanying piqued my interest. The home-wrecker sobbed over Michael’s blanket-draped body. Interesting. How close to Michael had the girlfriend been when Michael died?

I needed the pregnant mistress’ name. Referring to her as home-wrecker wouldn’t get me very far in questioning people. I started my investigation by reading the article.

Apparently the reporter, Karen England, didn’t have the whole scoop.  She identified the crying woman solely as Annette Holland, a co-worker of the victim. Self-proclaimed reporter extraordinaire contributed the hysterical crying to pregnancy hormones, not to the fact that the recently deceased was the father of the child. A twinge of pain gathered in my chest. The baby would never have a chance to know his or her father.

If Michael was the father.

Maybe Marilyn wasn’t the only person Michael fed that line to. I’m sure a pregnant woman wouldn’t be thrilled for the daddy-to-be to deny paternity.

When lunchtime arrived, I visited the office of Allan, Taylor & Gilder. The modern chrome and glass structure was out of place in our rural town. The building could be seen from every point in Eden, making it a landmark from which driving directions branched from.

The Allegheny Mountains rose in the background, dwarfing the modern building and commanding attention for its beauty. Spring was still a few weeks away, but the barren trees cascading down the rolls and dips in the mountain started showing some green.

I pulled into the parking lot and slid off my sneakers and replaced them with classic tan two-inch pumps. I hated driving in heels but the grown-up shoes added a snazzy touch and gave me a more professional appearance.

I gripped the steel handle and pulled open the glass door. A rush of cold air hit me. I headed toward the security station. The sound of my heels grew louder on the gray tile floor. I gave the guard my most winning smile. The man responded with a bored, annoyed look. This was going well. I composed my expression into a more hardened, no-nonsense professional look.

The man turned his chair and looked at the monitors on the desk.

Maybe pestering him would work. I leaned against the counter and cleared my throat, tapping my nails on the black marble top.

He picked up a clipboard and made a tick mark on the sheet. “The conference room is on the fourth floor. Miss Holland is currently speaking with a reporter from channel Nine News. After that, there are two newspaper reporters and then the dude from the radio. You’ll have at least a two-hour wait.”

I decided against correcting him. Admitting “I’m here to get Annette Holland to confess to killing a man” would get me kicked out of the building. I thanked him and headed toward the elevator. As I waited, my gaze lingered over the building directory. A cafeteria was on the second floor.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside and pushed the button for the second floor. As long as I acted like I belonged, I would be fine. I’d ask my questions and be out of there before anyone figured out my intent was proving Annette Holland guilty of murder.

Including—and especially—my number one suspect.

I took a deep breath and hurried, but not suspiciously, to the cafeteria. I choose two different types of salad, one a traditional garden salad and the other a spinach salad with grapes, walnuts and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. I grabbed two chocolate brownies, and in case Annette wasn’t a chocolate girl, a piece of key lime pie.

From down the line, I heard a voice that sounded like the man I most wanted to avoid. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. Yep, Detective Roget. I strained to hear his conversation with the man and woman standing with him, but couldn’t make out if they were discussing lunch options or locating more evidence against Marilyn.

Which I’m sure they needed. A marriage certificate and a flip threat to kill someone had to fall under circumstantial. Even the cropped photographs and the scissors weren’t undisputable proof—unless Marilyn’s fingerprints were on the sharp-tip scissors.

I quickly handed over my money and asked for a bag. The last thing I needed was someone noticing I was there. Okay, not someone, but Detective Roget, the man who warned me to mind my own business. Mentioning Marilyn asked for my help probably wouldn’t persuade him this was now my business.

“We don’t have bags,” the cashier said. People grumbled about the hold up.

“No problem.” I opened up my quilted handbag, glad I preferred my purses cavernous, and placed the items inside. I stopped at the condiment station and fiddled with the plasticware as I waited for Roget to focus on the menu. When he studied the food choices, I scurried off.

Once I was safely enclosed inside the elevator, I let out the breath captured in my lungs. Never did stale air feel so refreshing. The elevator reached the fourth floor.

I walked down the hallway and saw where a large group of men and women assembled. I stood a little away from them and waited. Fifteen minutes later, the conference room door opened. I charged forward, pushing my way through the swarm of bodies.

Annette stood in the doorway, one hand caressing her swelled belly and the other rubbed her back. She looked tired, triumphant, and ravenous.

I pulled out one of the brownies and held it up. “I brought lunch!”

Her gaze pounced on me and she crooked her finger. “You’re next.”

Complaints erupted around me. Most from reporters wishing they had thought of my scheme. Of course, all they wanted was a story. I wanted to exonerate my friend.

When I was close enough to see her eye color—baby doll blue—Annette snatched the brownie from my hand and unwrapped the plastic from around it. She waddled back into the room and took a large bite of the chocolate treat.

I shut the door and continued toward the large table in the middle of the room. A wall of windows was in front of me, and behind me were bookshelves loaded down with leather-bound books. Annette plopped into a chair at the end of the table. She finished off the brownie and tossed the crumbled wrapper onto the table.

“I also brought a choice of salads.” I put the garden and the spinach salad on the table with forks and napkins.

“No more chocolate?” A hopeful expression filled her face.

I smiled and pulled out the gooey, rich brownie I had planned on saving for myself. I held it out to her and she plucked it from my hand, a loving sigh escaped her lips. She motioned for me to sit down and devoured the dessert in two bites. Impressive.

She dusted the crumbs off her hands and picked the garden salad. “I guess you’d want me to start with how I found Michael’s body.” A sob accompanied his name.

Nice dramatic effect. I pretended to focus on opening the other salad, but peeked at her. “How about some background on why you decided to attend the Art Benefit Show?”