Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (7 page)

Her fork paused above the plastic bowl. “Why would readers want to know that?”

I scooped up some spinach and walnuts onto my fork, keeping my expression neutral. “People love back story. It really helps to fill everything out. Gives that added personal touch.”

A smile flashed in her eyes and then quickly faded.  Maybe I could persuade her to admit she killed Michael by pointing out confessing brought even more attention.

“Mr. Allan wanted the lawyers there as a way of supporting the community,” Annette said. “Michael knew she was going to be there and didn’t want to arrive alone.”

“She?”

“His wife. At some craft booth. He was afraid she’d create a scene. They were in the middle of a nasty divorce. “

I shoved a large wad of salad into my mouth, expanding my cheeks to rival a squirrel storing nuts. It was the safest option unless I choked. I needed the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth to get Marilyn out of jail. Calling the woman who most likely committed the murder a liar wasn’t a wise choice. The boss made us go was such a lame excuse. I had trouble believing Mr. Allan announced on Friday night he wanted his employees to attend the event. 

“So, Michael Kane asked you to attend the Art Benefit Show with him, knowing his wife would be there?”

“Yes, he asked me.” Collapsing back into the chair, Annette fanned herself with her hands, fingers outstretched and the peach painted acrylic nails fluttered at the air. “Michael feared for his life.”

The man should’ve had a little fear bringing his girlfriend to his wife’s job. I shook my head in hopes of silencing the questions growing in my head. “He said those words?”

She stopped the waving motion, but her hands remained raised. She chewed on her bottom lip as her eyes and nose scrunched. “Sure. He said those exact words.” She tapped her peach nails onto the table. “Make sure you write that down.”

I pushed down the annoyance and worked on settling down my snark. “The reason you accompanied Michael Kane was because he feared for his life? He thought someone would hurt him.”

“Not someone. His wife.”

“He said he was scared of his wife?” Understandable in a way since the man made a really stupid choice.

“Of course he meant his wife. Who else would he mean?”

I drummed my fingers on the table and gave her my best thoughtful look. “If he was in such fear of his wife, why didn’t he just stay home? Being a lawyer, I’m sure he could’ve come up with a good excuse why he missed the show. “

“It was necessary.”

“Why?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I guess you’d have to ask Michael. And we can’t do that since his wife killed him.”

It was time to switch embellishments. “There was a picture in the paper of you kneeling besides Michael’s body.”

Tears filled her eyes. The brusque manner and the calculated look slipped for a minute as real grief etched itself onto her face. Annette had loved Michael. And now her baby would never know his or her father. Shame skittered along my conscience and I almost stopped the questioning, but a picture of Marilyn behind bars flashed into my mind.

“Were you nearby when he was killed?” I asked.

“No. I was getting a drink when a woman came and told me something happened to Michael.”

“Did she call Michael by name?”

A blush crept across Annette’s face. “No, she said my boyfriend.”

I suppressed my smile. Annette opened up the topic that I hedged around. “Why would this woman believe Michael, Mr. Kane, was your boyfriend?”

She fanned herself again. “She probably saw us together and assumed it since I’m pregnant.”

“Could it have been because the two of you were holding hands or acting like a romantic couple?”

Clenching her hands together, she clambered to her feet. “Wait a minute. Why are you asking these questions?”

“Just looking for the truth about what happened.”

“The police know Marilyn Kane killed her husband.” She lumbered around the table and headed toward me

I grabbed my purse figuring the question and answer session was over. “Maybe because they don’t know he told his wife your baby wasn’t his.”

Annette charged like a bull in slow motion. I glided away from her and reached the door with no problem. I took hold of the knob at the same time the door was thrust open. I slammed into the wall.

Detective Roget rushed into the room. Sputtering, Annette pointed at the wall I was squished against. Roget’s eyes widened then turned into slits. He marched over and grabbed hold of my arm.

“Hey—” I tried tugging away.

“Not. One. Word,” he said, between clenched teeth. He kept a grip on my arm and yanked me out of the room.

I watched my feet to make sure I didn’t trip over anything, and to not have to look at the detective. I’d call Cheryl to bail me out. She’d handle the news better than Grandma Hope. Hope would rush into the station apologizing for my behavior. Or leave me in jail so I’d suffer the consequences.

Roget found a vacant room, pulled me inside, then released me. He slammed the door and faced me. “What are you doing here?”

I rubbed my forearm and thought about commenting on police brutality then decided remaining silent might be my saving grace.

“I’ll ask again, why are you here?”

I took two steps backwards, my pulse fluttering. Truth seemed the better option than evasiveness when dealing with a furious officer of the law. “Helping Marilyn.”

His face reddened and his chest ballooned out as he took in a deep breath.

Then again, maybe not. I cringed backwards.

He muttered under his breath, either counting or asking for restraint. “And just how is talking to Miss Holland doing that?”

“I just wanted to know where she was when Michael died. Ask her some simple questions since—”

“On what authority?”  He cut me off before I said “the police won’t ask her.”

I met his gaze head-on, posture straight and regal. “Being Marilyn’s friend. I know she didn’t kill Michael. I can’t see her harming anyone. No matter how horribly they treated her.”

“Miss Hunter, did you ever see yourself trying to solve a murder?”

I shook my head and remained standing tall.

“Or see yourself talking to, or rather arguing with, a homicide detective?”

Again I responded with a denial.

“Or see yourself coming really close to being arrested?”

Once. I kept that truth and remained silent.

He rested his hands at his hips, fingers drifting over the handcuffs. “If you can’t even know for certain what you would do, how can you be so certain about your friend?”

NINE

I jabbed the blade of the box cutter into the thick tape and jerked my arm downward. The top flaps separated and I yanked the flaps open, the cardboard tearing at the seam. How did Roget know there was no way I could be absolutely sure? I could so know that Marilyn wouldn’t murder a person. Cynical cop.

The bell above the door sounded its polite ding. I put on my happy face, stood and placed the box cutter into my front pocket before I turned around.

Steve filled the doorway. My warm smiled faded when I saw the closed expression on his face. Usually he greeted me with a flirtatious smile, but the straightened lips said something bothered him.

And it involved me.

“Can I talk with you?” Steve asked.

I continued unloading the paper. “I need to restock. Our customers have been badgering us for more of this brand. Then I need to get the easel boards set up for the layout contest displays.”

Hope rushed over. “I’ll finish the paper.”

I wanted to glare at her, but could never do that to my grandmother. Instead, I rolled my eyes and continued unpacking. “Grandma, I don’t want you to strain your back bending over and standing so many times. I can talk to Steve tonight when I’m done working.” I flashed a smile at Steve. “That okay with you?”

His mouth remained straight. “It’s important we talk right now.”

Hope closed the flaps on the box. “This can wait until later, Faith. Why don’t you two talk in the office? He did interrupt his day to come over. You should speak with him.”

“Thanks, Hope.” Steve started in that direction.

Why did my grandmothers always comply with Steve’s wishes—or him with theirs? Especially when it came to me. For once, I’d have liked respect for my choice. “Grandma, I know you’re in the middle of checking the statements.”

“I can use the break.” She shooed me back toward the small area. “Take all the time you need.”

Unknowingly, my grandmother was leading me to the firing squad. Steve didn’t come here for a date. The only interest he had in me right now was delivering a lecture.

Trudging into the office, I made my way behind the desk and sat down. A large piece of furniture between Steve and me seemed like a good idea. I wasn’t sure if it was more for my benefit or his.

Steve shut the door and locked gazes with me. “Guess who stopped by my office?”

Even though playing dumb didn’t become me, I entered into the game. “Did Cheryl stop by to see if you had a layout for our contest?”

“Faith, this is serious.” He braced his arms on the desktop and leaned forward. “You don’t realize how much trouble you’re about to get into.”

I knew. I just didn’t really care. Or not care that much. Marilyn needed someone’s help and all she had right now was me.

Steve sat on the edge of the desk. “Detective Roget isn’t happy with your amateur sleuthing.”

“He’s going to arrest me?” I peered at the desk and pushed a paperclip around the surface, fighting the emotions wanting released. I wasn’t sure if I’d cry or yell at Steve.

“He didn’t say anything about arresting you. He just wanted to know if I’d talk to you. Thought you might listen to me.”

“Why would he think that?” I grimaced after the question left my mouth as the implied meaning registered in my brain. I would listen to Steve’s warning as well as I did the detective’s—not at all.

“Because he wanted to offer me a professional courtesy before he took certain extreme measures,” Steve said.

I stared at him, hoping he’d elaborate on the statement without my vocal prodding.

He stood and looked down at me. I hated when people did that, it was easy enough to look down on me when standing, sitting while someone did made me feel like a child receiving a scolding.

“Roget has been asking around about you,” Steve said.

Sweat trickled down my back and I swallowed down my gasp. Roget had no right asking about me. I pressed my hands against my legs, stopping myself from jumping up.  No reason for Steve knowing someone prying into my background was my worst fear.

“People saw us together, in friendly terms, as Roget put it.”

“Why wouldn’t you be friendly?” I forced out a smile.

“Then there’s the fact we live close to each other. A nice, easy arrangement was what the detective called it. Might be the reason you’re getting preferential treatment for interfering in a criminal matter.”

My cheeks flamed at the assumption the detective made against Steve’s character and mine. Pride mixed in with the embarrassment. It was nice to know others thought I had the ability to hook a guy like Steve.

“What did you say?” I asked nonchalantly. Part of me needed Steve to respond that he said there was nothing between us, without him being insulted at the assumption. Another part of me wanted him to have told the detective if there was something between us, it was none of his business.

“I told the detective a man shouldn’t go around ruining a lady’s reputation because he was irritated at her.”

“Oh.”

“He then responded you were doing plenty of damage on your own. Like intimidating a witness.”

“That’s not true!” I jumped up and the rolling chair collided into the wall. “I asked a simple question and the woman blew up. She’s lying about why she went with Michael to the art show.”

“Faith, the investigation doesn’t concern you.”

I stamped my foot and crossed my arms. Not grown-up behavior, but I had no idea what else to do to release the frustration shooting through my body. “It does concern me, Marilyn is my friend. That Annette chick is hiding something about what happened when Michael died. I need to find out what it is. Marilyn asked for my help and I owe her.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You owe her?”

“I need to help her.”

“Stay out of this. You’re only going to help yourself become her roommate.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do.” Steve wrapped his arms around me and rested his head on top of mine.

“No, you don’t,” I muttered before accepting the comfort he supplied. This was a temporary lapse of judgment not to be repeated. Ever.

We remained like that for a few minutes before Steve released his hold and took a step back.

“Please, listen. It’s not your fault. You had to tell the detective what Marilyn said.”

Heaviness filled my heart. “Then why do I feel so bad?”

The aloofness left his expression and softness replaced it. “Because you’re a sweetheart.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, brown gaze locked onto brown gaze.

The expression in his eyes quaked my knees. I had fantasized about kissing Steve, wondered about it, but never gave him the impression I was interested in him. I fought against the instinct begging me to close my eyes and raise up on my toes. Self-preservation required I avoid a romantic relationship with the assistant county prosecutor.

I stepped back and turned from him. I needed back on safer ground, my choice of defending Marilyn.

“I know she didn’t do it. If the police believed Marilyn said she wanted Michael dead because I said it, why won’t they even reconsider when I say she wouldn’t actually do it?”

“This isn’t about believing in someone or not. It’s all about evidence.” Steve opened the door.

I rushed after him and then grabbed hold of his arm. “What evidence?”

“I shouldn’t have said that. You worked in the legal field. You know the police wouldn’t unjustly bring charges against Marilyn.”

Wrong. People lied. Police bought every made up word and innocent people suffered. I pushed down the brewing anger and the past. “Tell Roget I won’t talk to Annette anymore.”

“If Marilyn needs help, she should hire a defense attorney. Or if she really wants a private detective, there are professionals out there.”

“Are you saying I’m not capable of being a private detective?” I glared at him. “That I would mess up?”

Steve gaped at me. “Do you seriously want to become an investigator?”

I bit my lip. “Well, no. Not really.” Heck, I didn’t even think I was qualified to track down a murderer.

“Then why are you mad at me?” He raised his arms in surrender. “I can’t believe you want to argue about this. Think about it, Faith. If you’re right, then the best people to confront a murderer are the police. Not you.”

TEN

After Steve left, I minded my own business as well as I could while still being a friendly representative for the store. I kept an interested look plastered on my face as customers swirled around me, gossiping about who killed Michael Kane.

Half the customers believed a displeased client at Michael’s law firm killed him. Made sense. Even people who committed crimes didn’t like going to jail or forking out loads of money to the plaintiff. The other half sided with the police and felt Marilyn killed her husband. For those who believed Marilyn did it, seventy percent felt Michael deserved it.

Keeping my opinions inside my mind was a tiring job. I feared my head would fall off my neck from all the bobbing up and down. A group of teenagers walked into the store and glanced around. I gave them my entire attention.

“Can I help you find anything?” I asked.

Four awe-struck gazes focused on me.

“Is this where the killer works?” A girl with shiny blond hair asked. The other three, two boys and a girl, stood behind her and gawked.

“Man, I wonder if she got her weapon here.” The tallest boy pointed to the rack with the remainder of our cutting tools. They headed toward that section of the store.

“You’d think this would work?” One of the boys reached for a pair of decorative scissors.

“You touch it. You buy it,” I said, in the tone I used when talking to the Hooligans, Sierra’s delightful children.

After shooting me a look of disgust, the teenagers stomped out of the store complaining about the lady with no sense of fun. I knew fun. I liked fun. I didn’t appreciate Scrap This becoming a spot on the Criminals in Eden Tour. Other customers in the store redirected their focus to merchandise and the talk of Marilyn fizzled out.

Linda rushed into the store twenty minutes late, and almost collided into a customer. No surprise. Since Linda started working at Scrap This three months ago, she’d never arrived on time. It was an ingrained fault that had lost her other jobs. Scrap This was her sixth job in the last year.

Linda stashed her purse underneath the counter and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

“If you man the register, I’ll finish putting up the display boards.” I pointed at the mess in the middle of the floor.

“Sure,” she said and sat on a stool.

I skirted around the counter and returned to the mess in the middle of the floor. An easier chaos to deal with than the one I created by helping Marilyn. I lifted up one of the display boards and started to pull the wooden legs apart but my tugs were in vain. I let out a puff of breath and eased the display back to the floor. Maybe if I stepped on one of the legs and used both of my hands, I could open it.

As I leaned over to grab hold of the wooden post, a voice snapped behind me. “What are the rules?”

I peered over my shoulder and spotted Darlene, our most competitive and spendthrift customer. Holding in a groan, I straightened and faced her. Cheryl was better at dealing with tantrums, but she had stepped out for a late lunch.

“Rules?” I asked.

Darlene, life artist extraordinaire, whipped out a small recorder from her gigantic Vera Bradley purse and pressed the record button. “For the layout contest the store, Scrap This, is running for the seasoned scrapbookers. I assume the artists competing for the cutting machine cannot have help on their entry. So, if an artist wasn’t able to attend the Art Benefit Show, may they use pictures taken by another person who attended the event?”

“How should I know?” I returned to setting up the displays.

“You are an employee here. You are the granddaughter of the owners.” She poked me in the shoulder. “You’re not allowed to enter are you?”

Releasing a sigh, I gave her more patience than I naturally possessed. “I’m not entering the contest. I was busy running the store’s booth and had no time to take photos.”

Suspicion deepened the frown on her mouth and the lines around her brown eyes. “But could you if you wanted to? What if a friend took photos and then gave them to you to scrapbook?”

“Darlene, write your concerns down and I’ll ask the owners about them.”

“I’d like an answer now.” She plopped down on the floor and folded her legs into a pretzel shape. “I refuse to leave until the rules are confirmed and written down.”

“Fine. I’ll go see if Cheryl’s back.” Right now, I wished Steve was still here. I doubted Darlene would react in such a manner with a hot guy in the store.

Whispers drifted from behind the curtained partition of the storage room. I parted the fabric.

Hope and Cheryl stood huddled together. Hope gestured at the back door, then toward the front of the store. Cheryl’s gaze flicked in that direction and widened when she saw me. She elbowed Hope.

The quiet argument stopped and they looked at me as if I was the center of their world.

They were hiding something.

Cheryl grinned at me. “Faith, how’s Steve?”

I narrowed my gaze. Grandma Cheryl never grinned like a staged candid moment of children dressed in matching outfits as they skipped through the surf. “You don’t care how Steve is.”

“Of course I do,” Cheryl said.

I muttered in my head and addressed my grandmothers. “I know you two weren’t back here clucking about Steve.”

Nothing happened. No lecture, no grandmotherly narrowed gaze. No reminder of how I wasn’t raised to talk to my elders like that. The ignoring of my snark concerned me more than their actions. 

Hope pointed a shaking finger toward the door. “There’s a police car in our employee parking lot.”

What did Roget want now? Were the police tying the store into the murder? It was bad enough the police arrested one of my grandmothers’ employees for murder. Pinpointing their beloved store as a supply house for weapons would hurt them even more. If Roget wanted a showdown, I’d give him one. “I’ll go find out what he wants.”

Cheryl puckered her lips. “Maybe the officer wants to question your choice of lunch break.”

Steve. The man ratted me out to my grandmothers, which meant the worry I saw on Hope’s face resulted from my behavior, not the police’s. “I just asked Annette a few questions.”

“Faith, stay out of it,” Cheryl ordered.

“Marilyn asked for my help.”

Hope walked over and hugged me. “We’ll find her a better defense attorney since hers isn’t doing a good job. We’ll even help with the costs of her legal defense. One thing we shouldn’t do is personally involve ourselves in the investigation.”

“You instilled in me that family means everything. No one should ever turn their back on family when they were needed the most.” I held out my arms. “You’ve always said the employees in this store are family. I can’t abandon Marilyn when she needs me most.”

Cheryl and Hope exchanged a quick glance, one that said they weren’t pleased their words were being used against them.

“This is different,” Cheryl said.

“How is it different? Because someone accused her of a crime, we should just forget about her?” I crossed my arms so my grandmothers’ didn’t see how much I was starting to shake. I didn’t know if it was from building anger or fear of what my grandmothers’ answer would be.

“Playing detective is liable to hurt you and Marilyn. What’s wrong with hiring a private detective?”

Hope smiled. “That sounds like the perfect answer. We need you here doing work for Scrap This. I’m sure a detective would have plenty of resources to get this solved a lot quicker. Not that you wouldn’t do a wonderful job, sweetie.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”

“I don’t want my granddaughter thinking I don’t believe in her.” Hope glared at Cheryl. “We never told Faith she wasn’t capable of doing something.”

“Well she never tried solving a murder before. Do we really want our granddaughter skulking about after a murderer?”

Hope tapped her chin. “That is a good point.”

“I haven’t been skulking,” I said. Somehow my grandmothers forget I was there.

“Faith can do anything she sets her mind on and that’s the problem.” Cheryl pointed a finger at me. “Messing with the type of people willing to kill isn’t something you just decide to do one day.”

Hope nodded. “There are professionals for that.”

“Like the police who believe Marilyn is guilty,” I said.

“How many times have you walked straight into trouble because of being overly helpful when you shouldn’t have been?” Cheryl asked.

Thankfully it was a rhetorical question because the actual number was hard to remember. As a child, I could be convinced to ask the teacher the questions resulting in detention. That trait also led me to take every word Adam spoke as truth, so I ignored glaring inconsistencies. Lies that ended my legal career.

And there was one person I wasn’t ever overly helpful for, and she was still sitting in the middle of the store. “Darlene wants a written copy of the rules for the layout contest clarifying if the entry must be the sole work of the artist. And if employees are allowed to enter.”

Cheryl and Hope exchanged an eye-roll.

“She’s holding a one woman protest by the display boards.” I tilted my head toward the curtain.

“I’ll handle this.” Cheryl motioned for me to follow her out into the store. I was either backup or a potential witness in case Darlene decided to take us to court over rule-breaking. Or to hold my grandmother’s earrings while she and Darlene tussled.

We entered into the shopping area. I groaned. The problem had escalated while I went for backup. 

Darlene was in a heated argument with Robyn and Stephanie, Darlene’s bitter rivals in the professional scrapbooking circle. A clear understanding of Darlene’s needs for written rules and regulations became apparent. Stephanie was an awesome scrapbooker, but a horrible photographer, while Robyn had the opposite strengths and weaknesses. Since the sisters cropped together, they could share the prize of the die cut machine. The only way Darlene stood a chance was making sure the sisters couldn’t compete as one.

Cheryl shoved her way through the threesome, moving them away from each other. “Ladies, what’s the problem?”

“They…” Darlene said the pronoun in the tone usually reserved for those who licked their fingers and then touched the pattern paper. “…want to convince you there should be no rules for Scrap This page contest. But contests need rules. All the good ones have rules.”

The ultimate challenge. If we ran a legitimate contest, then rules existed.

“That’s not true. We didn’t come here to force the store into writing down rules to sway the outcome.” Robyn held up a sealed envelope the size of a large pizza box. “We just completed our entry.”

Darlene hissed at the news. Stephanie flashed a confident smile. Robyn tried keeping her expression neutral.

“The layout needs to be designed by the entrant,” Cheryl said.

“We did design it ourselves,” Stephanie said. “We did it together, both of our names are on the entry.”

“It should be a blind contest.” Darlene glared at sisters. “People will play favorites.”

“Our names are on a three by five index card. It can be slipped out from the page protector,” Robyn said.

I ventured into the conversation. “Since the Art Benefit Show will be the focus of the photos, rather than family members, favoritism shouldn’t be a problem. Not that we have any favorite customers.” Though for least favorite, I had a nice list building with Darlene’s name at the top.

“I don’t think it’s fair two scrappers can work on a layout together. They have an advantage,” Darlene said.

Cheryl smiled at her. “I think a collaboration is fine as long as both artists are willing to share the prize. I’m sure they put a lot of work into their layout and I don’t want to disqualify them because they worked as a team.”

Darlene’s face blossomed red. She sputtered and stopped before lashing out. “It’s cheating! If they can’t scrap an award-winning layout alone, then they shouldn’t enter contests. A great designer doesn’t need a partner.”

I shrugged. “Most interior designers I know have employees working with them.”

“That’s different.” She shot me a shut-up glare.

“Even authors co-write books together,” I continued. “And what about all those layout design books where multiple artists contribute?”

Cheryl, Stephanie and Robyn monitored our discussion with rapt interest.

Darlene continued giving me the evil eye. “That’s different and you know it. They each work on separate projects and then those layouts are combined to make a complete design book. The artists don’t work on layouts together.”