EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (11 page)

“So many identities up for the taking,” I said.

“Ninety-nine opportunities to become someone new,” Bob said.

“Add a few more. Marsha and Lydia are taking on-site registrations.”

“How many croppers can this room hold?”

“I'll see if I can find out.”

Two customers entered the store area and started browsing.

Bob placed his cell phone on his lap and started texting.

I turned on our accounting system and double checked to make sure the tape roll was installed correctly. My phone vibrated. Bob nudged my arm. I retrieved it from my pocket and swiped my finger across the screen.

A text from Bob. I raised my eyebrows and stared at him.

He looked down at my hand at pleaded at me with his green eyes.

Fine. I'd read the text.

The woman last borrowed an ID from an embezzler. An auditor who stole county funds.

Someone cleared her throat and I almost dropped my cell phone in my haste to pretend I wasn't doing anything wrong. Of course I wasn't, though ignoring customers wasn't a bright thing to do.

“Hi, can I help you?” I smiled at the young woman in front of me.

She held out an heirloom photograph. The edges had a slight yellowish tint and a slight burn mark on the bottom. In the middle of the picture was an old couple surrounded by two couples holding infants, seven teenagers, and three elementary-aged children. It looked like a family portrait had been taken in front of the house where the couple lived. There was a small clapboard house, a large horse, and numerous pieces of old-time farm equipment.

“I was going to crop the photo but my friend said not to. She said I'd regret it. I just think the background is too busy and the family gets lost.”

I stood and led her to where we had some pattern papers in soft colors. “Your friend is right. In a few years, you might regret not having a picture of your family's ancestral home.”

The young woman lightly touched the image of one of the young couples. “My great-great-grandparents didn't live there. My great-grandfather wanted to impress his in-laws so he had the picture taken at the farm he worked at. His wife sent the picture with a letter to her parents so they wouldn't worry about her. She wanted them to know her new husband was taking good care of her and the baby. This picture convinced her parents that their son-in-law was so successful, he could also take care of them in their aging years.”

I laughed. “That is an incredible story. I bet a lot of family stories were born by this one picture.”

The young woman grinned at me. “That there were. You know what, I'm going to make a whole scrapbook album about how this one picture changed my great-grandfather's life. Ten years later, he did own that property.”

“He wanted to live up to his in-laws' expectations.”

“No.” Her smile broadened. “His in-laws loved it so much that he wanted them to have it so they'd move out of his home.”

I helped her find a few embellishments and carried the stack over to our register area.

“Mind if I ring her up?” Bob asked.

“Umm…” I wanted to help him, but didn't want this young woman to be the first “suspect” he checked on. She didn't look old enough to pass herself off as an auditor. “I think it'll be better if I do it. Sometimes it's easier to learn by watching.”

Bob held the small scanner. “It can't be that hard.”

“Some of the items aren't marked. You'll need to use the generic code card.” I opened the binder and pointed at the list taped to the inside of the binder. “Non-sparkly pattern paper is all one price. Scan the barcode once for every sheet of pattern paper the customer wants to purchase.”

“Got it.” Bob talked to his cell phone rather than to me.

“The embellishment packages are priced individually so you can—”

“Scan the barcode on the package,” Bob said as he continued typing. “I think I can figure this out. Once I ring in the purchase, I give the customer the receipt.”

“Tear off the receipt. Show it to the customer so they can double check, then staple it to the sheet with their name on it.” My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

The young lady gave me her name.

“You don't ask for an ID?” Bob asked.

“We never have in the past.” Nor was it done at other scrapbooking retreats, but we didn't have a choice. I hoped we didn't offend anyone when we asked.

“How do you make sure customers aren't adding their items to someone else's tab?”

“Trust,” I said.

The young woman smiled at us. “Don't worry, I'm not insulted. You can never be too careful these days.”

Truer than she knew.

The young woman withdrew her license from her front pocket. “My mom told me I should never leave my credit card or driver's license unattended. If someone gets a hold of either of them they can create a lot of trouble.”

Bob flicked the edges of the license, compared the names on the cards, then returned them. “Wise woman.”

The young woman went back to her table.

I dropped into a chair. “That went better than I imagined. Maybe I won't have to offer a discount so we're not tarred and feathered for using a different procedure.”

“Change can be hard,” Bob said. “But at times it's necessary.”

My phone buzzed. I picked it up and read Bob's text.

Need copy of new seating chart. My gal is using a new cover. Last minute add-on might be her. Getting ready to flee. She's looking for a name to borrow.

I responded,
You need to find her before she takes off.

Then Bob's text:
Or winds up dead. We don't know who died this morning or why.

My shaking finger flew over the small touchpad.
An error?

Bob nudged me with his elbow and held out his phone.
There's a reason Morgan is here.
He already told you that you're the fall guy.

EIGHT

  

The fall guy.
I repositioned all the glitter glue and acid free markers following the Roy G. Biv sequence for hues. I needed something to take my mind off of Bob's words and the fact I couldn't do anything about it. Or at least right now. Steve was starting to look like the knock to his head was sapping his energy. There was no way I'd run after Morgan when I needed to keep an eye on Steve. And from what Bob and Ted said about the man, Morgan wasn't a man to trifle with. He meant painful, hurtful business.

Steve winced and adjusted his chair, turning ever so slightly to the left.

The afternoon sun shone through the windows flanking the back wall of the hotel. The natural light showcased our products beautifully and I hoped it resulted in less returns, though I wished it would tone down a little so Steve wasn't suffering. I scooted up and sat as tall as I could, hoping to block some of the rays from Steve.

A few croppers mingled in the store, debating between different shades of neutrals and if they should go “theme” for their beach photos or something more abstract. I preferred the more abstract approach, matching color and mood of the paper to the pictures. Happy pictures needed a more colorful, whimsy designs while more serious pictures or tones looked better on more formal backgrounds with angular or straight lines..

“Do you have tennis items?” A cropper sorted through a pile of sports themed paper and embellishments. “You have every other sport.”

“I packed some,” I said. “There might be a box or two that hasn't been opened yet. I'll check for you.”

Getting down on my hands and knees, I crawled under the table. The first box I shook was empty. The next had a little heft to it. I tugged it toward me and opened the flaps. Trimmers. Scissors. Piercing tools. I reached up and fumbled my hand around the table.

“Need something?” Steve asked.

“Duct tape.” I wanted to seal the box of possible weapons.

“Here you go.” Steve handed me a roll.

After taping the box, I returned to my original mission. I jiggled the last box. There was something in it. I drew it out and peered inside. Paper and stickers. I hoped the tennis items were in here. The other options were I left them at the store back in Eden, or the trailer. My stomach tightened. I wasn't looking forward to going outside. I couldn't send Darlene or Steve. The dirty white sedan might still be there, and I didn't want either of them running into the owner of the hidden car.

I opened the box. I flipped through the sheets. “Found them.”

“Thanks.” The woman picked out one of each item and headed for the register.

A sealed package of Christmas pattern paper was next and under it Halloween items. This was our discounted product. How did the tennis items get mixed up in here? I lifted the box from the floor.

“Let me get that.” Steve jumped up.

“I got it.” My arms strained. Next year, I'd pass on ordering the Christmas lines for the store. None of my choices sold very well. “Can you clear a space for me? These are clearance items. I'll just mark the box fifty percent off.”

“We should put it by the register. If you have Bob checking people out, he's not going to know clearance from regular merchandise.”

Bob had taken up residence in a chair that was on the perimeter but not in the store. Bob rotated his attention between his cell phone, the doors, and Garrison.

“He's here for the ambience.” I rummaged underneath the table for pieces of cardboard. I wanted to use them as dividers to separate the pattern paper.

A customer handed her selections to Steve.

I removed some of the paper. A butter yellow scrapbook album was at the bottom of the box—Gussie's gift album. I rescued it. One of our mysteries was solved. Grinning, I scooped it out and sat down.

The first page was a heart-shaped collage of photographs, an at a glance depiction of my grandmothers' lives. Hope and Cheryl aged from innocent teens, to young mothers, grandmothers, all the way to the present where they were strong, independent business owners.

I turned to the next page. Someone had taken a photo of my grandmothers behind the counter at Scrap This. They smiled brightly, arms draped around each other. I saw love, strength, and honesty in their expressions and body language.

My grandmothers had not only lost their soul mates, but their only children. The world had dealt them many harsh blows in their lifetime, and yet they lived fully and without reservations. They hadn't turned those pains into a reason to create a shield between themselves and others, instead using their experiences to help others through the same heartbreaks.

“I wish I could be like them.” I touched the edge of the photograph, wanting to draw the best of them into me.

“You are.” Steve wrapped his arms around me, placing a tender kiss on my head.

“No, I'm not.”

“If you believe that, then you know what to do to change it.”

Steve was right. I stood, pressing the book to my pounding heart. I yearned to fess up, but now wasn't the time or place. There were too many distractions and people around. Steve, the man I loved, deserved to be told without an audience. “I'm going to give Gussie her book.”

Something clanked and rattled from the back hall of the room. I looked at the clock. It was three in the afternoon. My stomach grumbled. I hoped the sound meant snack time had arrived.

In the middle of the room, drama was brewing. Two women huddled around a third, each taking a turn to peer at a young woman at the end of an extra-large table. Two twelve-foot tables were pushed together to form a large square instead of two lanky rectangles.

The fourth woman bobbed her head in tune, or at least I suspected so, to the music she played through her headphones. Her blonde hair tucked behind her ears showed off her bright red ear buds. With her eyes glued to the intricate layering work on a journal, she was oblivious to what her friends plotted against her.

Three resort employees wheeled in carts loaded down with fruit, chips, salsa and pretzels. Another employee tugged a gigantic plastic trash can behind him filled to the brim with ice. Two muscled security guys carried in cases of water and soda. Snack time had arrived.

“I said, move it.” A voice rose over the sound of the employees setting up the snack zone.

I zeroed in on the large table. Yep. That was it. The blonde could no longer ignore her friends' annoyance.

Two of the women stood off to the side. One was heavily engrossed in her phone and the other was fretting her hands together. The youngest woman still sat and scrapped, bopping along to the music coming through her headphone. The third woman seized the back of the chair of the cropper and yanked it. Fortunately, neither the chair nor its occupant budged.

Bob studied the arguing women, taking keen interest in the one sitting. He took a picture, pocketed his phone, and left the cropping area. I wanted to follow but figured I could help more by finding out what caused the brouhaha. The woman looked vaguely familiar to me—and to Bob. Could this blonde be the one I spotted arguing with Morgan and the thief?

Not that she was the only tall, blonde, lithe woman in the room.

“I guess I should go see what that's about.”

“Shouldn't Lydia or Marsha?” Steve stapled a receipt to a tab sheet.

“If you see one of them, send them over.” I left Gussie's album with Steve.

I had a feeling Darlene wasn't able to make magic out of the seating arrangement chaos Marsha created. I bet women had decided to settle themselves into a spot rather than wait on Marsha. I marched right over to the table, deciding to take charge from the get-go. If this little battle got out of hand, who knew how many others would erupt.

“Is there something I can help with?” I asked.

“She isn't our tablemate.” The woman yanked a sheet of paper from between her bosom. “Right here. Amanda. Julie. Heather. And Extra Paid Space. She doesn't belong at our table.”

Extra paid space? I went with the assumption that they liked having a spot for their larger tools.

The one who didn't belong continued cropping. I admired her dedication, and was suspicious of it.

“Are you sure you're at the right table?” A lot of tables were still empty as some croppers wouldn't arrive until after five, not everyone could take the day off from work, and the angry crew might be the ones making a mistake on the seating.

“Yes. Want to see?” She held the sheet of paper out to me.

I placed my hands behind my back, taking her word for it. “I'll just have a little chat with her.”

“I hope talking works better for you,” the woman muttered, crossing her arms and glaring at the table trespasser.

I tapped the young woman on her shoulder. Her blonde hair swung as she swiveled toward me. She pulled out one of the ear buds. I heard nothing. There wasn't a volume control on the headphones. So she had been dancing to the music inside of her head. Maybe we could move the threesome to another table and leave Dancing Queen where she was happy.

“It seems there's a mix up with the table.” I smiled at the young woman. She looked to be in her early twenties.

“No.” She drummed her fingers on the table.

“These women are assigned to this table.” I studied her face. She had spotted me taking photos in the parking lot. If she was the identity thief then she knew—or at least suspected—I was on to her. I needed to tell Bob.

“Okay with me. There's plenty of room.” She rearranged strips of pattern papers on top of a composition notebook.

“Move!” One of the trio jostled the woman's chair. “We paid for all four of these seats and want all of them.”

“I'm already set up.” The young woman held her ground.

“Let's just check where you were assigned,” I said.

“Don't know why you'd do that. I'm not moving.” The woman continued working on her pages.

This sounded like a challenge. “Just give me your name.”

The woman sighed. “Fine. Violet Hancock.”

“I'll be right back.”

I made a detour back to Scrap This and fetched the tab sheet binder. I had a perfect reason to take a look at the seating chart and I might as well compare it to the names in my binder. No sense making customers wait for me to make them a sheet when I could do it now. While I perused it, I'd find a way to make a quick copy for Bob.

“What about the shopper?” Steve pointed at a woman debating between two types of adhesive.

“Write her name on top of the slip. I'll put it in the notebook when I come back.”

Before Steve thought of a different way to handle it, I hurried to the registration desk where a bored volunteer updated her Facebook status. “I need to see the seating chart.”

“It's right there.” She pointed at a laminated sheet of paper.

It was final now. I walked around and sat on the edge of the table, placing the chart just above my binder. First thing, check for Violet. Frowning, I leaned closer and went over the chart again. No Violet. I checked three more times and came up empty.

Please don't tell me someone decided to help and just let Violet in without registering her properly. The volunteer collected the fee and probably put her in the “empty space” figuring it meant exactly that. I knew from the headcount supplied to Scrap This, there were only a few walk-in spots available.

Maybe Darlene forgot to transfer over a name. Putting the seating assignments together on the spot was a difficult task, especially with numerous last-minute changes. I picked up the chart and blinked a few times, hoping the lines, doodles, cross-outs and writings somehow evolved into something readable. It didn't work. I flipped through my tab binder. I knew I could make heads from tails from my records. No Violet.

I had an almost overwhelming desire to cart everything over to Bob. But I refrained, because a huge production would be a big tipoff if the identity thief was in the room. My instincts had narrowed it down to Violet and the blonde I spotted arguing with Morgan in the hallway. What better way to disappear at an event than by giving an incorrect name? But then why create such a ruckus? Of course, she probably didn't know the empty seat she picked had such territorial croppers. I had to play this cool. I didn't want this woman to leave before Bob got a heads-up.

“Mind if I borrow this?” I shoved the laminated seating chart into my binder.

“How will I tell people where they sit?” The volunteer kept her gaze trained on her phone.

“They can come over to Scrap This.”

“Right. Make them carry their stuff to the back of the room and then over to their table. Sounds like fun for them.”

“I just need it for a few minutes.”

The woman sighed and looked at me. “Those few minutes might annoy a lot of the croppers. I know Lydia has two other Cropportunity retreats planned for this year. She needs croppers to register for the other ones this weekend.”

“I'll give them a twenty percent discount on consumables for their troubles.” If I discounted the one electronic die-cutter I bought to sell, I wouldn't have to worry about what harm Morgan had in store. My grandmothers would take care of that part themselves.

The woman's eyes brightened. “That should smooth things over.”

“Great. I'll have it back to you in a little bit.”

She returned to her phone. “Take your time.”

I walked back over to the table. I had a feeling even the truth wasn't going to move Dancing Queen from the spot she already configured as her own territory. I didn't want to push too hard and make her leave.

“You're not listed at this table.” I showed her the seating chart. No Violet at the table.

“Yes, I am.” Violet waved her arms over her organized work space. Three small totes with pockets set up a fence between the table she commandeered and the one pushed against it. “Why would I spend so much time setting up here, if this wasn't where Marsha told me to sit?”