EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (10 page)

“I like my boring life.”

Gussie grabbed a collection pack of pattern paper. “That's what I'm talking about. What's boring about being happy? About having people love and care about you, and you loving them? Hanging out with friends. Working at a job you love and are good at. No real stresses or worry. Most people search for that kind of life. But you can't find contentment in it. I have no clue why. You think you're going to find contentment by fixing any problem you spot?”

“No, I don't. I like my life.” Even as I denied Gussie's evaluation, the truth smacked me over the head like an overstuffed three-ring binder.

Who was I kidding? My major driving force was guilt. Plain and simple. I kept a shameful part of my past secret from my grandmothers, Steve, and friends because I didn't want them thinking less of me. And because I was lying to them all the time, I made up for it by stepping in when I saw someone was in trouble. I wanted to be worthy of their love, trust and friendship. I knew I didn't deserve it, so I worked on earning it.

But so far I'd just created a big mess.

Garrison walked into the Scrap This and rearranged some of the products on the table. He leaned toward me and our shoulders touched. “Bob is heading to the hospital. A nurse thinks he knows the name of the victim.”

I fiddled with the point-of-sale system making sure the connection wasn't loose. “Did Bob say there's a possibility she's the person he came here to find?”

“No.”

Darn it. I was really hoping that part of the case was solved. I disliked having some many unknowns to work on. I glanced around, making sure no one else was in earshot. “A scrapbook about my grandmothers' lives has disappeared.”

Garrison positioned himself in the opening into the store area. “Does Bob know this?”

“Yeah.” I snuck a glance over at Gussie and Darlene. Darlene was making some adjustments to the arrangement of her cropping space. Gussie dug around in her large scrapbooking tote. “I think we're going to need reinforcements since we have a couple of crimes to solve and stop.”

“A couple?” Garrison frowned.

“The ID thief. Marsha's ex-husband possibly stalking her. Whatever Morgan has done, or will do, that he wants to blame on me. And locating the scrapbook before it becomes fodder for the thief.”

Garrison glanced down at his cell phone. “Are your friends the act immediately type or wait and observe type?”

“Act.”

“Then we should wait until we talk with Bob. No sense creating a panic.”

“Trust me, Darlene and Gussie aren't the panicking types.”

“Even more of a reason not to tell them. Let's wait until we hear from Bob. Maybe everything is settled.” Garrison wrapped an arm around my shoulders, giving me a comforting squeeze. “Bob is taking care of Morgan and can make sure your grandmothers' information is protected.”

“So that leaves Marsha, and the actress-in-residence. Care to call dibs on either?” I asked.

Garrison smiled. “You can have Marsha. I'll look for our unknown.”

“Why do I think you have the easier job?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Gussie staring at us. She frowned.

I smiled and waved. “She thinks I'm up to something.”

“Probably because we are, and she knows you better than you think.”

Gussie narrowed her eyes and resumed scrapbooking. Or at least that was what I thought she was doing. She could've been sending my grandmothers some text messages.

I let out a huge sigh. “I think you're right. So, how am I going to tell them something is up without telling them? Gussie and Darlene aren't the backing down type either. It'll be easier taking away a limited edition subscription kit from a scrapbooker than convincing them nothing is going on.”

Garrison smiled at me sympathetically. “I don't envy you. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

“I could bring them in on Marsha's problems. They won't gossip about it and Gussie deals with grown-up juvenile delinquents all the time.”

“Sounds like the perfect answer. You're worried about Marsha and are trying to keep an eye on her.”

“They'll either help with Marsha, or take over the store this weekend. If Gussie thinks I'm being a busybody and need to learn a lesson, I'll be stuck with babysitting duty.”

A customer walked over. Garrison left and went back to cropping. Darlene stood and headed my way. She wanted to know what was going on. I pointed at the customer and gave Darlene an apologetic smile. She let out a huff and did an about-face and headed back to her chair. I avoided Darlene's nosiness for the moment.

“Do you have a slicer?” a woman asked me, twisting her long dark hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and then sticking a plastic glittery green wand into the mass of hair.

Slicer? What the heck was that? I pounced on the first scrapbooking tool that made sense. “Sorry, we don't carry the Slice.”

The woman gaped at me. “How can you not carry a scrapbooking staple? My photos will be ruined. I cannot have the sides feathering when I crop them.”

She wanted a trimmer. I removed one of each from a box in the corner. “We have two different brands of trimmers.”

A frazzled looking man in a suit, tie eschewed, bee-lined straight for me. When he got closer, I recognized he was the daytime manager for the hotel.

Mr. Anderson slapped his hands onto the folding table holding our wares. The small plastic bottles of glitter glue wobbled. Packages of embellishments swayed on the small round spinner stands where we clipped them.

I grabbed one before it swan dived off the table, and asked the question he expected. “Can I help you?”

“These aisles need to be cleared.” He pointed at the haphazard arrangement of cropping gear around the room and in the areas set up as walkways. “If the fire marshal decides to stop in for a visit, we're all in trouble.”

“The people to talk with about that are Lydia and Marsha.”

“I'm choosing to talk with you. I hope you're better at getting things done than those two are.”

Marsha scurried into the room, balancing stacks of papers, folders, and trying to ignore a gaggle of women following after her.

“Near the door. I said near the door.” A blonde woman with a pixie cut was right on Marsha's heels. “There is no door in the middle of the room.”

“We should get the floor clear soon. Marsha is finalizing all the last minute changes to the seating assignments,” I said.

The manager gazed up at the ceiling. “Why don't I feel any better?”

I had to admit I had my own doubts about it. Marsha seemed even more frazzled. Her hair was half in a ponytail, and half sprouting around her head. Garrison had put the papers in a nice order and now it looked like someone decided to play a game of fifty-two pick-up with the seating chart and email printouts.

Female voices carried over from the registration table.

“I came with a friend. If I wanted to crop alone, I'd have stayed home.”

“I'm a vendor. See the stamping supplies over there. That's where Lydia placed me. I was promised a cropping spot near my merchandise.”

“I called you yesterday. You said there was room for me. I spent all night packing and headed over here this morning. Don't tell me there's nothing available.”

“The bank denied the charge,” Marsha said.

“What?” The woman fumbled in her purse and yanked out a small wallet. “You wrote the number down. Here try it again.”

Marsha dug a cell phone from her purse. She rummaged in the cash box at the registration desk and retrieved a credit card reader. Quickly, she hooked it to her phone and then swiped the card through the device.

The woman craned her neck, watching Marsha's every move. “Type in the amount.”

“I'm trying!” Marsha ran the card through again. “The signal isn't good. It won't stay connected.”

“Try again. I better not lose my space.”

Marsha needed help, but I needed to run the store. I knew just the person who could wrangle the table chaos into submission. The seating chart would be a color-coordinated masterpiece after Darlene worked on it. There wasn't anything I could do about the poor Internet and cell phone reception.

Low buzzes filled the room. Gazes left scrapbook pages and locked onto the door.

Detective Bell stood in the doorway, feet planted apart, mouth set in a fierce line. His badge hung from a lanyard around his neck. He was letting everyone know he came here for business. Our eyes locked. He smiled and moved toward me.

I was the intended target.

SEVEN

  

Detective Bell walked up to me and flashed his badge. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“I need to take care of something real quick.” My pulse raced. I had to settle down before I talked to him. Rambling never worked when talking to a detective.

“Whatever you have to do isn't more important than what I need.” Bell hit a button on his cell phone. It blinked to life.

“I know you're a detective and what you do is important. What's going on here might not matter to you, but it does to these women.” I waved my arms around like I was performing a magic trick or showcasing items for a game show. “They saved for months to come here and have a fun weekend. All I need is to ask Darlene if she can help out.”

Bell placed his cell on the table then pressed his hands on it, leaning toward me. “Unfortunately, one of them will not have another day. That should take precedence.”

“She's a couple of feet away. Trust me, you want me to do this. If not, you're going to need to break up some cat fights in a few minutes.”

“Fine. But make it quick.” He crossed his arms and added a glower.

I hurried over to Darlene and stood behind her while she finished adding a border of turquoise glitter to the edge of her page. One never interrupted a cropper in the middle of glittering.

After a few seconds, she was done and looked up. Her gaze skittered to the detective then back to me. “Need my help with something?”

“Actually, Marsha needs assistance with the seating chart. Garrison and I gave her a hand a while ago and I don't think it solved all the problems.” Marsha's flakiness was a blessing for me. I had the perfect excuse for what Garrison and I talked about.

Garrison positioned photos on white cardstock. “We did our best, but even I couldn't read it, and I'm used to doctors' handwriting.”

“I'll get my kit and head right over,” Darlene said.

I heard Bell clear his throat. I trudged back over to Scrap This. A few bottles of glitter glue had toppled over so I stood them back up, rearranging the colors into a more pleasing array of hues.

“Stop with the busy work and answer my questions. We can do it here or down at the station.”

The last thing I wanted was to take a trip to the police station. I shoved my hands into my jeans pocket to stop fidgeting. “What do you want?”

“Who was outside when the accident occurred?”

“A lot of people.”

“Names?” He poised a pen above his notebook.

“I don't know everyone. Some vendors. A couple of resort employees.”

“Anyone you do know?”

“Sure. Steve. Ellie and Pauline.”

“Last names?”

“I don't know. They're the ladies who do the album embossing.” I pointed them out.

“Anyone else?”

“Bob. He'd been in the hotel and came out. Marsha.”

“Marsha?”

“The blonde I told you about who almost got hit by the car. She was on the curb, but she didn't get a look at the driver.”

“She didn't.” The intensity in his gaze deepened. “How would you know that?”

Great, I admitted I was interfering in his investigation. I inched further into the store, wishing there was something I could hide behind. “I asked her.”

“You asked her? I hadn't realized that was your job at this retreat.”

“I was just curious.”

Detective Bell intruded into my personal space. “Stop being curious.”

“Okay.” It seemed the right response.

“No one else you can recall?”

I closed my eyes and played the morning back over. No one else. I looked at him. “That's all.”

He smiled. “You've been a big help. Thank you.”

I sure didn't feel like one.

“What's she doing?” He gestured at a frantic Marsha pounding away at a keyboard.

“She's working on the seating chart. There have been some changes from last night.”

“New people coming? Cancellations?” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Marsha's frenzied movements.

“There were a couple of new registrations. I'd guess some cancellations also.”

“Stop!” Bell yelled.

All eyes turned toward him.

“Don't touch those documents!” He stalked over.

Marsha threw herself on top of the seating chart.

I scanned the room. Where did Darlene go? “Garrison, can you man the store?”

“Will do,” Garrison said.

I rushed over to Marsha and texted, praying I didn't trip on anything.
Need you. Seating mayhem erupted. STAT.
I hit send and hoped Darlene arrived soon.

“I will not have you tampering with evidence.” Bell tried tugging the paper out from under her.

I skidded to a halt a few feet from the tug-of-war.

“Evidence?” Different volumes of the word drifted around the room.

Way to keep your cool, Detective. Where was Lydia? For someone who didn't think very highly of her business partner, she sure did leave Marsha to her own devices quite a bit. I understood wanting to keep Marsha's focus away from alcohol, but dealing with all this stress alone would cause Marsha to run right for it.

“I need this,” Marsha wailed. “The crop can't run without it.”

“I won't permit you making any changes to it.” Bell now attempted to pry Marsha off the papers.

Marsha gathered more papers to her bosom. “I have to. I have all the emails showing why I made changes.”

“I want them all.” Bell claimed possession of one of the sheets of paper.

“Don't you need a warrant for that?” I slid onto the table, trying to aid Marsha in saving the crop. Without the seating chart, the whole crop would be a chaotic nightmare.

Okay, more of one.

Marsha grabbed hold of my leg.

“Don't involve yourself, Miss Hunter.” Detective Bell glared at me.

I scooted back a few inches so my derrière wasn't right on the edge. “A warrant. I'm pretty sure you need one to take the seating chart and the email printouts. If not, won't all this so-called evidence be inadmissible in court?”

Bell stepped back. “I didn't realize you were an attorney, Miss Hunter.”

“She's not,” Steve said. “But I am.”

I swiveled my head toward the door. Steve strolled in the last few paces. I gripped the edge of the table, stopping myself from throwing myself at him. He looked so good. Strong. Confident. Sexy. And no hint he recently sustained a head injury.

“As a prosecutor I have to say I would be concerned if a detective got evidence using your method,” Steve said.

“Darlene's coming to help make the final changes to the seating chart,” I said.

“If it would make you more comfortable, Detective, I can supervise the changes.” Steve pulled out his wallet and handed a business card to Bell. “The prosecuting office in Morgantown can reach me or my supervisor at those numbers. If necessary, I can come and testify at the trial.”

Bell jammed the card into his shirt pocket. “Mr. Davis, I don't need you or your girlfriend interfering in my investigation. That might be the way Roget allows things to happen in Eden but I won't permit it here.”

“In Eden, we don't like police officers deciding on a whim something is evidence and taking it. We prefer procedures are followed,” Steve said.

Bell stalked away.

I threw myself at Steve.

The day was getting better. He had to be feeling okay if he came downstairs.

Steve kept his arms wrapped around me. “Maybe I should get a bump on the head more often.”

My eyes filled with tears. “No. My heart couldn't take it.”

Steve kissed me, proving he was still indeed fine. He set me on my feet. “You best head back to Scrap This. I need to monitor the changes.”

“Darlene will be arriving soon. I texted her for help. She's good at organizing and restoring order.”

“That's because no one likes arguing with her.” Steve walked around the table and stood behind Marsha.

“You're right.” My heart and body yearned to remain close to Steve for a while longer. “I left Garrison in charge but didn't give him any instructions. Shoppers aren't going to be too happy.”

“You're fine for now. I think the attendees were more interested in the arguing going on over here than shopping. That won't last too long.”

Darlene walked into the room carrying a small box. “Being prepared is the first step in winning battles. I needed to go upstairs and get my kit. Stand aside.”

The women parted and Darlene made her way behind the table. She dropped into a seat and immediately took charge. She lightly slapped a spot in front of her. “The current seating chart goes right here. To the right side, all requests for changes, and to the left all cancellations.”

Marsha just stared at Darlene.

Darlene snapped her fingers. “Let's get on with it.”

With trembling hands, Marsha held up a haphazard stack of papers.

“I see we're starting from scratch. Steve, you sort. I'll create a new chart, and you…” she pointed at Marsha, “separate these croppers into three lines: preregistered attendees who don't need any changes, those that need changes, and on-site registrants.”

Before Marsha even got out of her seat, the women started shuffling themselves into lines.

I tore myself away from watching Darlene work and went over to Scrap This. Sometime in the last few minutes, Bob had discretely made his way into the room and was helping Garrison take care of the store. Being unobtrusive was probably a skill a private eye needed to perfect. They huddled over the binder I had made with a tab sheet of paper for every attendee—every attendee that had pre-registered up to yesterday.

“Here are the keys to the trailer. I moved it for you!” Bob tossed the keys toward me.

The keys sailed toward my head. I ducked and covered. They clattered to the floor, landing near my feet.

“You were supposed to catch,” Bob said.

“I was worried about getting clunked in the head. You're aim was off.” I fetched the keys.

“My throwing was on target. It's your catching abilities that need work,” Bob said.

“You can get back to cropping.” I shooed at Garrison.

“Are you sure? Even with Bob here…” he nudged his boyfriend with his elbow, “you'll be manning the store yourself.”

“I can handle it. I know Bob has some work he needs to get done.”

“Right, that's why.” Garrison tried hiding a grin.

Bob shook his head, attention directed at his phone.

“Steve should be done playing sentry guard soon. Everyone seems intent on getting their cropping space set up rather than shopping right now. Bob and I can manage it.”

After Garrison went to the cropping table, I settled into the chair besides Bob. “Any luck yet?”

“Nope. My informant overheard the paramedic talking about a television show, not the woman he brought in.”

My shoulders sagged. “I was hoping we found that piece of the puzzle.”

“That's why it's always important to confirm information before reacting on it.”

Bob studied the binder. “You have a list of everyone attending.”

“It's our running tab sheet.” I scooted closer to Bob and flipped through the book. “Customers don't want to have to run credit cards through multiple times, so we keep a running tab on what they purchased.”

“You write it all down?”

I pointed at our credit card processor. “I use our machine as a calculator and input the costs, then I tear off the sheet and staple it to the attendees' tab sheet.”

“And the attendees don't mind their names being passed onto you?”

“No one's complained yet.”

“If someone doesn't show up you'll know?” Bob closed the binder.

“Not everyone shops.”

Bob looked around the room. “It looks like scrapbooking seconds as a means for a massive shopping expedition. All these ladies seem to have their own mini-stores.”

“True. Some women save their entire yearly scrapbook budget to attend a retreat. Most people have a stockpile of supplies or they take the cast-offs from their friends.”

Bob lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Would you consider taking credit card payments now? If any flags come up on an account, let me know and I can track down the person responsible. And if anyone balks at showing their driver's license, I know who to take a look at.”

“I've been debating it. It'll be a big change from the way retreats are normally run. I don't want the attendees thinking I don't trust them to be good for the amount.”

“Could you offer a discount?”

“A small one, I just hope it's enough to offset any offense they might feel.”

“Tell them it's a new machine and if you do a little at a time, you can work out any kinks. Cut down on training time.”

“I'm willing to give it a go. We have to protect them from…”

Bob's eyes narrowed as a cropper walked by.

“From any mistakes I might make that will affect their credit.” I needed to work on my secret-keeping methods. It seemed everything I wanted quiet kept getting out.

“One hundred women.” I gazed at the growing number of croppers in the room. “You have to have something to go on. Scar. Speech impediment. Weird habit.”

“She's one of those people with a nondescript appearance. No distinguishing marks. Average height. Hair color, eye color, and weight can change. She's a chameleon. Her weaknesses are crafting, soda, photography, and creating stories. I tracked her to Bridgeport about three days ago.”

“That describes almost every woman attending this retreat.”

“Which is why I think she'll be here,” Bob said. “It's the perfect cover while she gets her bearings.”

Women huddled together pointing at pages and laughing. Others wrote carefully across pages. They went through stacks of photos. Everyone had brought pictures and memorabilia that told their life stories.