Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) (9 page)

Headlights flooded my car and an engine roared behind me. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The car surged forward, then eased back. I squeezed the steering wheel, feeling the grooves of the leather biting into my hands. My neck muscles tightened and I clenched the wheel.

Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. The exercise failed to calm me. Before full panic erupted, the stalker car turned. The breath I held in rushed from my lungs. Three more minutes and I could lock myself safely inside my home.

Turning down my road, the front windows of the three connecting townhouses illuminated the roadway with a burnished yellow light. Leave it to my grandmothers and Steve to welcome me home with a blaze of florescent protection. I pulled my Malibu onto the paved driveway. The porch lamp clicked on and highlighted the garden that would be filled with pink, purple and white haciendas once spring became a stable season in West Virginia.

Stepping out of the car, I reached back inside and yanked out my purse, and used my hip to shut the door. A light touch grazed my arm. I squealed and whirled. The strap of my purse slipped from my shoulder and I clutched it, preparing to use it as a weapon against my attacker.

A nearby door opened. “Faith?”

Cheryl’s voice.

Hank Brodart, Sierra’s husband, steadied me with a hand to my elbow. “Did I scare you?”

I slowed my breaths. “I’m okay, Grandma, don’t call the police.”

“Who said anything about the police? I’ll go put Charlie back in his corner. “

“Charlie?” Hank asked.

“The shotgun she uses for hunting.” I unlocked my front door.

“I didn’t know your grandmother hunted.”

“She hasn’t yet, but she’s willing to start any day.” I looked over my shoulder at Hank. “And was about to start with you.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Not as sorry as you almost were.”

As my anger faded, I realized Hank was at my house. Sierra popped in from time to time, but not Hank. Unless there was an unnatural occurrence created by one of the Hooligans. I took my car key from my fob and held it out. “What did the boys do to the car this time?”

“Long story I’d rather not get into.” Hank took the keys. “I’ll bring them back in a few. Just need to pick up a part then head back home.”

“No problem. I can always catch a ride into work with my grandmothers.”

“I’ll get them back to you tonight.”

“If I don’t answer right away, just drop it my mailbox.”

“Will do.”

Waving goodbye, I closed the door and locked it. An ingrained habit from the short time I lived with Adam. The base was protected and I thought it was silly to lock every door and window. I grew up with unlocked doors and friends walking right in. Adam trusted nobody, said he wanted me safe at all times. I thought he was being protective, cherishing me, but learned he had good reasons for those fears.

Wandering toward the kitchen, I flipped on the reading lamp in the living room. The light on the phone blinked. Voicemail. My finger lingered over the play button. Whoever it was could wait until tomorrow morning.

I made a sandwich, passing on the meatloaf and mashed potatoes Cheryl left, and devoured it in less time than it took to take out the lunchmeat and condiments.

As I put my plate in the sink, a movement near the kitchen window drew my attention. I squinted out. Darkness obliterated anything in the yard. I couldn’t even make out the cherry blossom tree smack dab in the middle of the back garden or the deck that stretched eight feet from my house. I stretched onto my toes, leaned closer to the window. Blackness echoed back at me.

TWELVE

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window the next morning, hitting the beveled glass cabinet doors and dancing the yellows, blues and reds around the room. Pressing my hands on the counter, I rose and studied the backyard, looking for something out of place. Everything appeared as usual.

My imagination had worked overtime last night. In my dreams, I envisioned Roget lurking around the yard, holding up a sign proclaiming all my faults and secrets.

I yawned and filled my travel mug with my second cup of coffee of the day. The scent of the dark, nutty brew filled my being and some of the exhaustion trickled from my bones.  

Stepping onto the front porch, I glanced around the cement for my newspaper. I slipped my artist tote from my shoulder and leaned over the railing and looked into the small bush beside the porch. I paid the bill, so the carrier shouldn’t have skipped my house.

Another theory wormed into my mind. My grandmothers snitched the paper to keep me from reading about the developments in Michael’s murder, a more likely scenario than the carrier having a grievance against me, or a paper thief running amok.

My purse chirped. I rummaged around for the phone. Pen. Notebook. Granola bar. Class sample layouts I needed to complete. On the fourth ring, I finally grabbed the device. I pulled it out and looked at the number flashing on the screen. Hope.

“Hi, Grandma,” I answered in my most chipper voice.

“Sweetie, can you run some errands before you come in?”

“Of course.” Great. Now I needed the pen and notebook I dropped back into the cavernous bag.

“Thanks so much, honey. Stop by the pharmacy and pick up my vitamins. Lionel was closed earlier when I stopped by. I called and he said he’d have them at the register for you. Also, grab a package of those mints Cheryl loves. They’re located at the front register, by the bell.”

I gave up on finding a pen and concentrated on memorizing the list.

“The library called. The romance book Cheryl put on hold is in and she’d like you to pick it up for her.”

“The title?”

“You don’t want to know.”

I could almost hear Grandma Hope blush.

“Then stop at the bank and get some deposit slips.”

My morning slipped away from my control. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Pick up a carafe of coffee from Dianne’s. Our coffeemaker broke this morning.”

“Sure. Not a problem. I might be a little—”

“And hurry. Between the entries coming in, fielding phone calls on the contest, and customers needing help, we’re swamped.” Hope’s voice held a smile. “It’s so wonderful to see this place filled to the max. More customers walked in. Must go. Remember, hurry.”

Interesting, none of the places she was sending me sold the Daily Eden Tribune. And now I’d have no time to get a copy before I came into work. Something suspicious lurked in the town of Eden.

Offering my most pleasant smile, I handed a purchase to our fifteenth customer that morning. Why did business always pick up on the days I had something to do which required a slow morning? I tapped my nails on the counter as I watched a customer match her photos to different cardstock colors.

She refused my help, afraid any employee assistance would disqualify her layout. Even my reassurances did not relieve her concerns about the rules. Darlene had every contest cropper running scared. Then again, Darlene’s antics spread through our scrapbook community, resulting in lots of customers. Buying customers.

Good gossip helped business. Our regulars stopped by for the inside scoop, but stayed and spent money. A few admitted they also wanted to be here in case there was a repeat of yesterday, figuring Darlene’s entry would arrive soon. Heaven forbid anyone thought she needed more time than the sisters to complete her layout. Women venturing into the competitive side of the hobby often turned into scrapzillas.

The bell above the door jingled and I greeted the newcomer. Karen England, otherwise known as Karen Pancake during our growing up years, glided into the store wearing a suit that highlighted her trim figure. She glanced around the store. Her mouth dipped into a frown as she took in the rows of pattern paper and the packages of stickers on the far wall.

I had a feeling she didn’t enter into the store because of a desire to scrapbook her articles and clippings. But I could be wrong. And she could be the answer for my information dilemma. No need to browse the internet when I could just speak with the reporter holding all the facts.

Giving my best customer service smile, I greeted her. “Welcome to Scrap This. How can I help you?”

She tapped a long red nail against her lips as she walked over. “This is where Marilyn Kane worked?” Disappointment lined her tone. She lifted the flap of her brown leather tote and stuck her hand inside.

I lost my smile. Karen wanted dirt about Marilyn for career advancement. An ordinary story of a woman killing her husband wouldn’t make a big splash on the wire service. She needed a unique angle to make this story bigger, catch the interest of a national organization. Well she was on her own.

I plucked a catalog from under the counter and read it. Some new shapes in chipboard caught my eye. I marked the page with a paperclip, circling the item in bright orange ink.

Karen cleared her throat.

After licking the tip of my finger, I flipped the page with a nice resounding snap. If Grandma, either of them, caught me doing that, they’d lecture me as if I was daydreaming during a sermon. Scrapbook shoppers didn’t appreciate paper licking. Near riot conditions occurred when someone touched paper with germ-laced fingers.

“Where have I seen you before?” Karen placed a hand on top of the catalog and tried tugging it away.

“Grades kindergarten through twelfth.” I yanked the catalog back.

She snapped her fingers. “You tricked Annette Holland into an interview.” She made air quotes on the last word. “Sheer genius. I should’ve thought of it rather than play the take a number game. But you’re not a reporter. Why were you talking to Annette?”

“I’m working. No time for questions.” I prayed for a customer to walk into the store and beg for help choosing cardstock, pattern paper and other embellishments for their page. I needed Darlene to flounce in and start another argument about the contest.

“Come on, don’t you want to help Marilyn?” She flipped open a notebook, her pen poised above a blank page.

“Right, you’re here to help her.” I glared at her, hoping she’d take the hint. The bell above the door jingled. Hallelujah, a customer. “As I said, I have a customer to help.”

The woman waved off my offer and headed toward the adhesives.

“Looks like she knows exactly what she wants.”

I wanted to say like you, but kept the comment inside my head. Getting into a word war with Karen seemed like a bad decision.

“One question. I promise.”

“I won’t talk about Marilyn.”

“This isn’t about her. I’m interested in what you and Annette Holland, Michael’s mistress, talked about.”

That raised my eyebrows. So the mistress story was getting out. “I wanted to know why she showed up at the event with Michael, and how she came across his body. I saw the picture in the paper of her kneeling beside him.”

“You don’t think Marilyn committed the crime. Even though she did say—to you—that she wanted to kill him.”

“I’m sure she’s not the first wife to utter those words.”

“True. I heard my mom say it to my dad more than once. But then again, my dad is still alive.”

“She had nothing to do with Michael’s murder. This conversation is over.” I spun away from her and frantically looked behind the counter for work needing done.

“If she had nothing to do with it, why was she denied bail? Did you visit Annette to threaten her on Marilyn’s behalf?”

“What?” I gaped at her.

A wicked gleam lit her eyes. “I have it on good authority you and Marilyn had a chat before she was arrested. Then you went and had a little talk,” she air quoted again, “with Annette. Surprisingly, right after you left, the young expectant mother refused to speak with anyone.”

The accusation reeled around in my brain. I didn’t know who was in the most danger right now, Marilyn or me. Why hadn’t Roget confronted me? Was he gathering more information before he made a move? My stomach churned. How much trouble was my help getting Marilyn into? It wasn’t her fault I questioned Annette.

Okay, maybe a little since she asked for my help, but she probably figured I’d be a more competent detective. “We didn’t create some elaborate plot to intimidate that woman.”

“That’s not the way it looks.”

“And I wonder who’s helping your point of view? Annette?” Detective Roget’s name popped in my mind and I kept it there. “Why did Michael show up at the art show with her? He knew his wife would be there, even told her he wanted to put the divorce on hold.”

Karen’s brows rose. “He called off the divorce?”

“He sure did. So bringing the girlfriend with him doesn’t make sense.”

“True. Then again, Michael Kane wasn’t a bright man if he thought he could have an affair in this small town.” Karen shaped her hand into a duck’s bill and opened and closed her fingers. “Gossip is our most renewable energy source. He should’ve known to stop the nonsense when she got transferred from the Morgantown office to the satellite office here.”

True. The only secrets in this town were the ones where only the holder knew the details. To continue an affair— “Wait a minute. Did you say Annette followed Michael from the Morgantown branch to the Eden site?”

Karen grinned. “He asked for her specifically when his office needed a new secretary. Funny how Miss Lucy was fine as his secretary until he met Annette at a work retreat.”

That was a new piece of information. I needed Karen’s sources, they had all the information I craved. “That had to make it worse for Annette. She moves down her to be with the man of her dreams, and when she needs him most, he decides he likes his wife better. Good reason to kill a man.”

“I agree with you. The only problem is Annette has a solid alibi.”

“She could’ve killed the cheater, established an alibi, then returned and cried over Michael.”

“Most grown-ups don’t believe in fairy tales.” Karen whipped out a copy of today’s newspaper from her purse and dropped it onto the counter. “My compliments,” she said, then waltzed out the door.

The headline screamed at me: “Vengeful Wife Kept Behind Bars.” Instead of a picture of Marilyn, there was a photograph of her two children being shielded by their grandparents. My heart ached for Elizabeth and Mark.

Why didn’t I stop Marilyn before she started spouting off figurative threats? Or throw out the stupid trash from the crop the night before? Right now, she’d be home with her children and helping them through their grief.

Running my finger under the words, I took my time reading the details the story revealed. Marilyn was working at the Art Benefit Show. Michael attended with a colleague, now also revealed to be his mistress. Okay, check mark by those details. 

Marilyn arrested. Check. Marilyn denied bailed. Check. Marilyn argued with Michael at the show. New detail. Marilyn spotted screeching at Annette Holland at the art show. Another new detail. At least now I knew why the court denied bail.

But I still didn’t believe Marilyn killed Michael.

“Don’t even think about it, Faith.” Sierra tossed her purse under the counter and grabbed mine. She thrust it at me. “Go get some lunch. And stop feeling guilty about Marilyn.”

“How do you know that’s what I’m thinking?”

“I can see what you’re reading.”

I shoved the newspaper into my purse.

Sierra started towards an overwhelmed customer in the blue paper section. “Take your lunch break and think about something happy.”

“Tell me what the boys did to the car.” I grinned. “I bet it’s a great story.”

Sierra eyeballed me.

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.” Apparently not a story with a happy ending. I picked up my purse and went next door to Home Brewed. Dianne made a wonderful chicken salad sandwich, and I knew no one would bother me there. She was as protective of me as my grandmothers, only she didn’t think Steve was the answer for every problem.