EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (19 page)

SIXTEEN

  

Croppers congregated in the hallway. Harsh whispers flowed from one group to another. I stopped and sipped my hazelnut coffee, hoping to catch a few words. My interest increased when I spotted Detective Bell talking to a group of four women. One waved her arms around in exaggerated motions, and the other nodded to whatever statements the other woman's gestures emphasized.

Detective Bell's gaze clashed against mine. I hurried over to the closed door. Great, now I'd have to juggle my coffee, my eavesdropping attempt, and open the door. I prayed I didn't splatter any of the steaming liquid onto my hand.

“I'll get it.” A woman grabbed the handle and tugged it. “The croppers last night sure were a rowdy bunch. I thought the manager was going to flip when he opened the door a few minutes ago.”

I froze in the doorway. Paper, stickers, candy wrappers, and confetti littered the floor. The entertainment last night must have gotten a little out of hand.

Two security guards, real ones, patrolled the perimeter of the cropping room. With Bell talking to croppers in the foyer, I wasn't sure if the manager stationed the guards in here to protect someone, or keep us contained. I was opting on herding us in as the police were under the assumption the murder was caught, and so far our presence here had only caused the manager headaches. And more than likely multiple nighttime phone calls.

On my way to Scrap This, I shifted my coffee mug to my other hand and picked up some of the empty packages and discarded embellishments off the floor. I placed the outer plastic wrappers into the trash and the abandoned embellishments into the “Lost and Found” box I created last night.

I was surprised to see Violet's items at her cropping spot, looking untouched. Hers was the only clean section at the table. Bell didn't hold much stock in what I said. He should have at least gone through her bags to see what else she hid in there, unless he figured I already procured all the evidence.

Amanda's cropping spot was a mess so I had a reason to go over do some cleaning, and more investigating. I scooped up some small scraps of paper and dropped them into the brown paper bag taped to the side of the table. A replacement bag had been left on Violet's chair. I started to exchange the new bag for the used trash bag.

A small bottle of grape soda peeked out from the litter I placed in the bag. Blech! I don't know how anyone could drink the stuff. It tasted like cold medicine.

Wait! Marsha insisted she hadn't been drunk last night when Garrison and I found her. Nor had she consumed the alcohol she'd been purchasing in the bar. This bottle was the same brand Marsha had in her room.

What if there wasn't just grape soda in the bottles?

I stared at the bottle. Could Violet have put a nighttime cold remedy into the bottle without Marsha knowing it? Had the credit card numbers and the membership card been planted in Marsha's room?

There was only way to find out: give the bottle to Ted.

I glanced around. No one was watching me. Using one of the plastic wrappers from a sticker package, I rescued the plastic bottle and placed it in the clean brown paper sack. No way was I going to put my prints on it. I hurried over to Scrap This and stapled the top shut so no one could “accidentally” see what I put in without me knowing about it. I texted Ted. I wanted it safe in a room as soon as possible.

I sipped the coffee in my covered mug. A mug I left alone on the table while I went on my semi-covert mission. Quickly, I shoved it away. I scanned the room. The few women in there were cropping away. No one looked like a murderer. Then again, most murderers didn't look like one. If they did, the crime rate would drop drastically as the police could lock them up the moment they showed their face.

A cropper wandered into the store, smothering a yawn.

“Late night?” I smiled at her.

She nodded. “The last time I stayed up past one in the morning it was because of a colicky baby. And that was fourteen years ago.”

“Looked like it got a little wild in here last night, there are scrapping cast-offs everywhere.”

“I'd blame that on the alarm, police cars, and ambulances showing up.” She held two different shades of purple cardstock out toward the natural light coming from the windows. “Everyone left in a hurry.”

Except for Violet. When I poked around her area, there had been some crafting supplies out. Either Bell took the few things she hadn't packed, or Violet had returned last night.

The cropper nodded, placing one sheet back and delicately holding the other one while she eye-browsed the packages of themed stickers hanging from the display rack. “We were worried the hotel was being evacuated. We grabbed our albums and headed out.”

A scrapbooker would flee without her wallet and electronics if it meant saving her albums. Money and gadgets could be easily replaced, the way a memory was showcased would be hard to reduplicate especially if some of the pictures were heirlooms with no negatives to make another copy.

“We tried coming back in a little later but all the doors to the convention center were locked.” The woman selected a few packages of WVU stickers then brought them over to the register area. She removed a fifty from her pocket.

I went for the cash box. It wasn't at the table. I had left it in the room. “I'm so sorry. The cash box is with my co-worker. I'll just add this to your tab and you can pay later.”

“I need to stay within my budget so I'm buying as I go.”

I tallied up the items then handed the purchases over. “As soon as a helper arrives, I'll go upstairs and get the box and we can settle up.”

“Okay.”

Once again, my sleuthing was getting in the way of managing the store. I took in a deep breath to settle my nerves and hopefully quiet the berating I was giving myself. No big deal. This was more of a problem in my head than in reality. I settled into the chair and hoped Gussie or Darlene showed up soon.

Minutes limped by. Come on. Come on. Of course, I could text Steve and ask him to bring the money box but he needed his rest.

Gussie and Darlene walked by and waved.

“You're here!” I jumped up and held back from clapping.

“About time I got a proper greeting.” Darlene repositioned her cropping cushion.

“Can one of you please watch the store? I left the money box upstairs.”

“That's a silly—” Darlene ended her sentence with the help of an elbow to the shoulder from Gussie.

“Of course I will,” Gussie said.

“Thanks. I'll be back soon.” I snagged the paper sack. Might as well keep the evidence safe in my room until Ted showed up. He was probably at the police station trying to get his brother released. If Bob hadn't been set free last night, which I was having serious doubts on that scenario.

Gussie eyed the package.

“Breakfast for Steve.”

I ran out the side door and down the hall, hugging the evidence to me like a baby. My footsteps echoed down the small corridor separating the convention center from the resort. I bumped into a cropper, my jostling combined with the large purse she carried, sent her careening into the wall. “Sorry.”

I bypassed the elevators where a couple of guys with the hotel's large luggage carts stood waiting. I headed for the stairs. The cropper's story of what happened last night tickled my brain. What was bothering me? What was I missing?

As I started up the second flight, a hand squeezed my shoulder. I jerked away, throwing myself off balance. As both my hands held the bag, I didn't have one on the railing. With a startled cry, my body fell forward, colliding into the solidly built stairs. My forehead stuck the edge. Darkness drew close.

“Oh my God! I'm sorry.” A voice floated into my head and then out.

Light trickled in as I struggled to keep my eyes open. Thoughts and words drifted into my brain. I tried grasping onto them but they slipped away. There was something in those fleeting memories I needed.

“You got to come help me.”

I knew the voice. Marsha. I blinked a few times and tried to focus on her.

“Are you all right?” She grabbed one of my arms and draped it over her shoulders. “Let's get you upstairs.”

I couldn't figure out much right now, but I knew
not
to trust Marsha. I made a feeble attempt to swat her away.

Marsha hauled me to my feet.

My head pounded. I heard a door open. The world wavered and grew fuzzy again. A figure stood on the landing. I couldn't make them out.

“Help me get her upstairs.”

An arm went around my waist. My free arm was limp. I felt limp. I drew in a breath to scream. All I managed was a whiny moan before the world went dark.

SEVENTEEN

  

A dull ache in my head woke me up. I was lying on something soft yet firm. A mattress. Someone was holding my hand, closing it around something. The pain wanted me to keep my eyes closed, but I needed to see what was going on. Marsha had taken me somewhere. And she had help. I fisted my other hand and moved it slightly. Good. I wasn't restrained. Now, I'd just lie still and wait for the right moment.

The mattress shifted. I opened my eyes a slit. Marsha was turned away from me. Now was my chance. I threw a punch. My floundering aim had me hitting her in the neck.

She screeched and tumbled to the floor.

I pushed myself to a sitting position. The room rocked and rolled. The sharp pain in my head had me collapsing back onto the mattress as nausea gripped my stomach. No matter what, I was getting out of here. I rolled off the bed onto the floor.

“You're going to hurt yourself,” Marsha said.

I crawled under the bed, my only option. All I needed was enough time to text Garrison. He helped me take Marsha to her room. He'd know where to find me. I squished myself against the wall, giving myself time to gather strength and wits to fend off Marsha. Normally I could take her with no problem. But I felt anything but normal. As I had a massive headache and was fighting the urge to puke, the advantage went to Marsha.

I shoved my hand into my right back pocket. No phone. I tried the left. Empty. Marsha had it. Now what?

My whole body trembled. Hysteria wasn't going to help. I needed a plan. There was plenty of stuff to throw at her. When she came after me, a well-placed kick to her head should give me enough time to crawl out of the room.

I felt stronger already. Having a course of action always made me feel more in control and confident. I'd stay here and wait her out. If she wanted me, she'd have to venture underneath the bed.

A knock sounded on the door.

Even better!

“I'm going to throw up! Leave it!” Marsha shouted.

The door opened then closed. A few moments later, the comforter lifted.

I wiggled myself around so I had the proper aim.

“You can stay there if you want.” Marsha squatted down and leaned over. “If you want the ice pack, I'll leave it right here.” She placed it on the floor.

I remained pressed against the wall.

The mattress lowered toward me. “Is there anything particular you want to watch? Well, listen to?”

Was she out of her mind? I snaked my hand out and snatched the ice pack, might as well have some relief while I devised a new plan.

“
Real Housewives
?” she asked.

“The shouting will give me a headache,” I said. Okay, a worse one.

“It can get annoying. Let's see…
House Hunters.
Or
Pawn Stars.
I love that show.”

I didn't venture an opinion.

“
Pawn Stars
, it is. You know, I am sorry. I wanted to get your attention so I could explain something to you. I didn't mean for you to get hurt.”

Yeah right. I shifted positions hoping to relieve the tingling in my left arm.

“You hungry? I have a ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of chips. I'll split them with you.”

“No.”

“Okay.” The bag rustled. Marsha crunched down on some chips. “These are really good, loaded baked potato. You sure you don't want any?”

“You are the strangest kidnapper I've ever meet.”

“Kidnapper?” Marsha squeaked. Something flopped onto the bed. The bedspring lowered toward me.

I flattened myself to the carpet. The comforter was yanked up.

Marsha's forehead came into my view followed by the rest of her face. “Kidnapper? I didn't kidnap you. You hit your head and I brought you up here for medical aid.”

“You called someone to help you cart me up here.” I rested my chin on my hands. What other explanation could there be?

“I couldn't carry you up here myself,” Marsha said. “I called Lydia for help. She is my partner.”

Okay, that one made sense.

“What were you making me grab earlier?” I asked.

“I was checking your pulse.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I was out of it, but not that out of it.”

She sighed. “Okay, I'll tell you but only if you come out and sit on the bed. The blood is rushing to my head and giving me a headache.”

“First, tell me why you grabbed me.”

“There's no need to over dramatize it. I didn't grab you. I tapped your shoulder.”

She wanted to lecture me about drama?

“I needed to clear something up between us and wanted to say it in private.”

“About your ex-husband looking for you?”

“About your ex-husband.”

“Mine?” I croaked out. Did Morgan decide to go after my professional reputation, then muddy up my personal life?

“Yes. I didn't want to believe Morgan at first, but the guy had some newspaper clippings. It sounded like you went through a bad time.”

“That's what he said?”

“No. He said you were a murderer and set your husband up to take the fall. I didn't believe that part of it.”

“You didn't?” I inched my way out and rolled over.

Marsha knelt on the bed and offered me a hand. “If his story was true, why not go to the police with his information? And he waited until after he saw us talking together to tell me. I know men like him. Bullies. I've been running from one for ten years.”

I accepted her hand. Shakily, I rose to my feet and clambered onto the mattress. “Do you think your ex-husband hired Morgan to track you down?”

“At first I didn't think so as he seemed more interested in you. But after what I heard this morning…” Marsha fluffed some pillows and placed them against the headboard. “You rest right here. I have some chips left and half a sandwich. You're welcome to it.”

“I'm not hungry. What did you hear?”

“You should have something.” Marsha opened up the mini-fridge. She held out two bottles. “Grape soda?”

“Marsha, tell me what you heard. That was why you wanted to get my attention. Remember?”

Marsha leaned against the armoire that housed the television and the refrigerator. She placed the soda bottles on top then wrung her hands together. “Did you see the picture Detective Bell's passing around?”

“No.”

“It's the woman killed. Apparently someone identified her.” She picked up the speed of her hand-wringing.

With my heart pounding, I sat up straight. I had never wanted anything as much as I did that name.

“The woman who died, her name—” A sob cracked Marsha's voice. “Was Marsha Smith.”

I was glad I was sitting. My cell phone was on the night stand, a few feet away. Could I grab it and contact Bob before Marsha reacted? Or snatch it and get the heck out of her room?

“I didn't think he'd find me. My plan was perfect. I searched for Marsha Smith's on a vacation properties rental site. I found one in Morgantown. She was going on a cruise with her mother and wanted to find a renter who wouldn't mind keeping an eye on her aging cat.”

“So, you agreed to it and then came here?” How could she leave the poor cat alone?

Looking at the ground, Marsha nodded. “I had the retreat this weekend but needed some place for after it ended. I figured since her house was only twenty minutes away, I could pop over there during the day and check up on it. It wasn't like I was the only one running the crop.”

That explained her “disappearing acts”. Marsha knew the woman and kept it from the police...and the poor woman's family. I scooted to the edge of the bed and pushed myself up. My head throbbed but I wouldn't back down. “You knew her. You lied to the police. That woman's mother had to have been worried sick not knowing why her daughter didn't show up.”

“I hoped to get away from here before someone found out.” Marsha wiped the tears dripping from her face. “My ex-husband is a cop. If they police took me in, he'd find out. That's why I needed to talk to you.”

“You want me to tell the police for you?”

“No. I didn't want you to tell the police on me. I figured you would since you took it.”

My heart revved up. I was certain I knew what “it” was but had to find out for certain. “Took what?”

“An identification card I had made. You're the only one who would've taken it.” Marsha grasped my hands as if she was about to propose. “You have to understand I didn't have any other choice. The only way to never see him again was to change my name. Being myself wasn't working. I hoped being honest with you would make you understand. I can't let the police find out I kind of knew her. They'd arrest me.”

I sorted through the questions swirling through my mind. Something wasn't adding up. I moved away from her. “How did this Marsha know to find you here?”

A blush crept across her cheeks. She bit her lip and averted her gaze for a few moments. After taking in a deep breath, she heaved out a sigh. “I left some of the paperwork for the crop at her house. She must've forgotten her passport or something and came back home and saw I was gone. I hadn't told her I was going to do double duty this weekend.”

“You have to tell Detective Bell. If there's one thing I've learned over the last year, it's that secrets will come out. And it's better if you tell them than someone else.”

“But he'll think I murdered her.”

I started rolling my eyes but stopped as it made me dizzy. “No, he won't. You couldn't have been driving the car and standing on the curb at the same time.”

“You're right.” She smiled and then it faded. “But what if he thinks I had something to do with it.”

I rubbed my temple. “He won't. Unless you keep the truth from him. Plus, if you think it was your ex-husband responsible, Bell will look into that and if you're right then your ex is in jail and can't hurt you.”

Marsha looked doubtful. I understood. When you lived in fear of the person who vowed to love, cherish, and protect you till death do you part–and discovered that death might be by their hands—it changed you. It was hard to trust anyone after that—even yourself.

Marsha took a bottle of grape soda from the top of the armoire.

“I wouldn't drink that.”

“Why?”

“Because I think someone tampered with your drink.”

She glanced down, a look of horror on her face. An empty brown bag and plastic grape soda bottle was on the floor.

“You put my fingerprints on the bottle!” I took in a few cleansing breaths and repeated to myself what I told Marsha. I couldn't be tied to the woman's death as I had almost been run over by it.

“No,” Marsha's voice filled with outrage. “I was checking to see if your fingerprints were the ones on the bottle. They didn't match up.”

“You put my fingerprints over the ones on the bottle?”

“I wanted to see if they were your prints,” Marsha said.

“Why?”

She moved from the bed, placing herself near the door. “You tell me why you were carrying it in a stapled paper bag, and then I'll tell you why I did it.”

“Because it's evidence,” I said. “I think I know who killed Morgan. The same person who I think has been tampering with your drink.”

Marsha's eyes widened. “What do you mean? We know who killed him, the PI who's a friend of yours. That's why you were bringing it up here. I understand wanting to save your friend but I don't want to be suspected of killing Morgan either.”

“I was taking it to my room until the police came for it. Bob didn't kill Morgan. He had no reason.”

“I heard he was fighting with Morgan earlier in the day. Even pulled a gun on him.”

“No, he didn't.” I kept the fact that he wanted to, and almost did, to myself.

“That's what I heard.”

I'm sure what Bob had done became a little more dramatic with every retelling down the gossip chain. “And that made you want to see if my prints were on the bottle?”

“I thought you were going to plant it in my room,” Marsha said.

“Why would I do that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because the ID disappeared from my room right after you got here. You had to have taken it for some reason.”

“If you knew I took it, why didn't you ask me about it?”

Marsha looked down at the carpet. “Morgan told me you were setting me to take the fall for the hit-and-run that killed the other Marsha. He said you do it a lot. Commit a murder and then find someone else to blame.”

“I was outside. I almost got run over by the same car. How in the world could I be driving it?”

“I didn't believe him that you killed her. But I did think you thought
I
had something to do with it.” She squeezed the bottle. It crackled. “Then he started asking questions about my family. My ex-husband. How I got into this business with Lydia.”

“He made you nervous.”

She nodded. “He kept talking about someone not being who they said they were. I figured my ex-husband sent him here to find out if I was the Marsha Smith who got away from him.”

My heart hurt for her. Marsha was scared, and uncertain of who to trust. The only person she felt she was able to confide in was me, the same woman she thought suspected she was a murderer.

“Yesterday, a cropper registered using the name Violet Hancock. I think it's a fake name.”

“Really?” Marsha looked at me with wide blue-eyes.

I nodded. The movement made me dizzy. “Yeah. She sat at a reserved space and insisted you told her to sit there when she registered.”

“I don't remember registering someone by the name of Violet.”

“You didn't. I checked. There was no registration form for her. I think someone's been drugging you. That's why I was bringing the bottle up here. It was at the table where Violet cropped.”