EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (20 page)

“That's an odd thing to think.”

“You've said you haven't been drinking this weekend.”

“That's the truth.”

“Yet, you've been drunk twice,” I said.

“I have not.” Marsha straightened her spine.

“The bartender mentioned it.” My headache grew stronger. “Then I found you passed out in the bathroom. The bottle of grape soda I found is the same brand you drink.”

“You think my grape soda has something to do with it?” Marsha stared at me with wide, frightened eyes.

“To me, the stuff has always tasted like nighttime cold relief. It would be easy to add it in without the person drinking it knowing.” I massaged my temples.

Marsha frowned. “I think I should take you to a doctor or something.”

“I'm fine. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

Marsha held out a bottle of grape soda.

“I'm not drinking it.”

“It's cold. It might help your headache.”

I accepted it and pressed it to my forehead. The coolness took the edge off the pain.

She pointed at the fridge. “No one can get to them. But I did bring some down in a thermal tote and left them at the registration table.”

“We need to find Violet.” I yawned.

“Maybe you should rest for a little bit.” Marsha wandered over to the windows and drew the curtains closed. “Once you're feeling better, we'll get to the bottom of this.”

I wanted to argue but drowsiness didn't just knock on the door, but opened it, stepped inside, wiped its feet on the welcome mat and made itself very, very comfortable. A short rest would do me good. I needed to be on my toes before Marsha and I went in search of Violet Hancock.

Or whoever she really was.

  

An insistent buzzing drew me out of my slumber. Groggily, I plucked my phone from the bedside table where Marsha had left it. “Hello.”

“Where are you?” Steve sounded worried. “Gussie said you left two hours ago to get the money box.”

Two hours ago? I fought back nausea and panic. I needed a good excuse. I went with the first one my fuzzy brain could conjure up—the truth. “I tripped on the stairs. Marsha was there and we talked for a bit. She thought I should rest. She offered me her room so I took her up on it and napped.”

“Why didn't she say something to me?”

“We are talking about Marsha. She's been pretty flaky all weekend.” I eased into a sitting position.

“What room are you in? I'll come help you.”

“No, I'm fine and feeling much better. I'll be down in a few minutes.”

“If you're not here in five minutes, I'm going to lead a search party.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“No more than that.” Steve hung up.

I wandered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. A smidge of purple decorated my forehead. I pushed up my bangs and studied the injury. Not too bad. At least I mentioned tripping so I wouldn't set off any warning bells.

A bottle of foundation was on the vanity. I borrowed some of Marsha's makeup and did my best to conceal the injury. I drew in a sharp breath when I tapped my finger to my forehead. There was a slight lump there also. The foundation toned down the purple and made the bruise not look as painful as it felt.

I held my phone in my hand and headed out the door. I decided on the elevator as my head still hurt and if I got dizzy didn't want to tumble down the stairs. I had enough of stairs today.

No one else was at the elevator so I didn't have to wait long for a ride to the first floor. The doors slid open and I stepped out into the foyer of the hotel. Detective Bell held a photograph out to the manager. The man shook his head.

My nerves twitched, urging me to inch over a few feet and pretend to browse the brochures by the front door. I'd be close enough to catch a few words and hopefully sneak a peek at the picture, and if Detective Bell spotted me, the nearby door offered a convenient escape route.

I wanted to see how similar the Marsha Smiths were to each other. There was something about what the Cropportunity Marsha said that bugged me. I wasn't sure if I was missing something, or it was a lingering effect of the knock to my head.

I edged over, securing my phone in my pocket, and snagged a pamphlet advertising a nearby winery.

“Are you sure?” Detective Bell held out the photograph again.

I arranged my hair around my face like a shield, then tried to peek at the picture. Drat. Wrong angle. I shuffled over a few paces and tried again. Still nothing.

Detective Bell placed the photo in a manila folder and closed it.

There went my chance. I couldn't just ask Detective Bell for a look at it. The man didn't trust me and would know there was a reason for my question. I wasn't sure if telling Detective Bell about Marsha was a good idea. I didn't know the man at all. Garrison sure didn't seem to trust him. The last thing I wanted was my nosiness to give Marsha's location away to her ex-husband.

“Are you sure you have never seen that woman before?” Bell asked.

“Yes,” the manager said.

“You're positive?”

I shifted sideways and held the winery brochure in front of my face. I tugged a corner of it down.

The manager rolled his eyes. “Of course, I'm positive. How many ways must I say I don't know that woman before you believe me?”

I drew the brochure down to the bridge of my nose. My pocket vibrated. I ignored it.

Bell shrugged. “I just have a hard time believing that, considering you had prior business dealings with her.”

“I oversaw the contract once everything had been worked out by the owners of the resort,” the manager said. “The contract was sent to me, and Ms. Clement came in to sign it.”

“You never saw her partner?”

The manager shook his head. “I met Ms. Smith when she arrived Thursday. It was a very short hello. Ms. Smith seemed anxious to go somewhere.”

“Where?” Bell asked.

“Then I had no idea, but now I suspect she needed to wet her whistle.”

Bell tilted his head to the side.

The detective thought the Marsha Smith killed was the same one who co-owned Cropportunity. My stomach swirled. Good old guilt was revving itself up. How could I keep the truth from Bell? There was a mother worrying about what happened to her daughter. She deserved to know the truth. Soon.

The manager rubbed his temples. “I had to find an employee who could escort her out of the bar and to her room. I'm sure Ms. Clement can help you figure out who that woman is. I don't know why you believe the woman in the picture is Marsha Smith.”

“Why would her mother lie?” Bell tapped the folder against his thigh. “She told me her daughter was an owner of Cropportunity.”

I held my breath, afraid I'd let out a gasp. Why would Lydia pretend that this Marsha was the real Marsha? Unless she didn't know either. Did Marsha, or Marcia, or whoever I talked to in the hotel room earlier, really have an ex-husband who was after her? Or was she so scared of him, she resorted to stealing people's identities to escape the man? If the woman I knew as Marsha Smith was an identity thief, why didn't she kill me when she had the chance? She knew I had taken proof of her other name. Unless she needed someone to take the fall for murdering Morgan and I was her gal.

Or, Marsha wasn't a murderer. Just because she committed one type of crime, didn't mean she'd commit another. Should I search for Marsha —the woman I knew as Marsha— or Lydia?

I wish Bob was here, or I that still had the membership card. The truth was likely on that small, laminated card. I also desperately wanted a look at the photograph. I remembered thinking the woman in the photo resembled the business partners and also Violet. Though all I could see was general facial features because of the huge sunglasses.

Like the woman in the picture didn't want to be recognized. The only way to solve the two murders was to find out which Marsha Smith was Marsha Smith, and which was Marcia Smyth—if there actually was the latter.

As Detective Bell planned on finding Lydia, I decided on looking for “Marsha” where I'd have less of a chance of running into him.

I knew the first place to look, or at least inquire about her. The bar.

EIGHTEEN

  

I turned and squished myself into the small opening between the doors and the brochure rack. Detective Bell showed a few more guests the picture. All of them politely stated they didn't know the woman. Once Bell headed toward the convention center, I hurried to the bar. I wanted to speak to Marsha before she spotted Bell and bolted.

When I entered the bar, my gaze automatically went to the table I had shared with Garrison, Marsha and Morgan yesterday. Did Morgan say something yesterday that resulted in his murder? Who else had been in the bar? Unfortunately the threats had been toward me, and the rudeness directed at Garrison. More reasons to add onto the list of “why Bob would kill Morgan.”

The female bartender looked at me with a quizzical expression on her face.

I scanned the rest of the room. I turned to leave but then paused as a thought flitted into my mind. The manager said a female bartender was working Thursday night. When the guy working yesterday wouldn't switch yesterday, the manager said he'd flip the two bartenders' schedules for today.

I hoisted myself into one of the bar stools.

“What can I get you?”

“Diet Coke, please.”

“We're only serving lunch for another hour.” She slid a one-sided laminated menu toward me. The afternoon was inching by and early evening approached. The bartender's name tag read Abby. She tapped a pencil against the ordering pad. “If you're a vegetarian, we can put together a salad for you. Won't be anything fancy.”

Waiting for food gave me a good reason for engaging in chit chat. “Two hamburgers and fries. One of those orders to go, please.”

She wrote it down then walked back into a small room. She returned in a few minutes. “The cook said it'll be done in ten minutes.”

“I want to apologize for a friend of mine.” I twisted the glass around. “I found out yesterday that she made a spectacle of herself in here on Thursday night. Blonde about this tall.” I held my hand out, showing the measurement in the air.

Abby shook her head placed her elbows on the counter. “A little is an understatement.”

“I feel bad that I wasn't able to come earlier. She's been doing well with her recovery but putting together this retreat stressed her out. She's been trying to switch vices.”

Abby nodded knowingly. “That explains bringing in the grape soda to drink while she ordered the beers.”

“She brought in her own? The resort doesn't sell grape soda?”

“No. We don't have a big space back here so we carry the usual. I told her she couldn't bring in her own beverage but she said grape soda is her new crutch. It keeps her from drinking her other vice. The manager was in here and okayed it.”

“It might have been better if she didn't order the beers and have them in front of her.”

A sad smile crossed Abby's face. “That's what I told her. I didn't want to bring her any but the boss said to bring her what she ordered. It was her money. Seemed a waste, but the customer is always right.”

“Until they create a scene.”

“Exactly.”

I swigged the diet soda. “I was wondering if you noticed if she took sips of the beer or maybe something got into her drink.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” Abby crossed her arms and glared at me.

The woman had some impressive biceps. “No. I just promised her sponsor I'd report back if any slip-ups occurred. I'm worried she decided to pick up another habit, and there's been some weird things going on around here.”

Abby's eyes widened. “You're talking about the murder?”

I nodded.

“So, he was bugging her too. Doesn't surprise me. The guy was a creep. He kept hitting on me even after I told him no numerous times.”

“How did you get him to stop?” I studied Abby. Could she have killed him to stop the unwanted advances? Stop. Why in the world would she tell me about Morgan's poor behavior if she killed the guy?

“I told him he needed to get my boyfriend's approval to take me out.” She showed me a picture of a well-muscled man in a leather brief and a crisscross halter over his chest. “The guy decided he didn't like the bar.”

“How long has your boyfriend been wrestling?”

“Since middle school. He started on a semi-pro circuit a year ago. Says it gives him something creative to do and relieves stress when the tax season comes around and he's working on clients' tax returns.”

A buzz filled the room.

“Be right back with your order.”

I wished we had him around this weekend. Morgan might have called off his blackmailing attempts right from the get-go.

“Here you go.” Abby placed the hamburger and fries in front of me.

“About...”

A bell jingled as someone else entered.

“Oh yeah, your question. I think she took a drink from all the beers. There were about ten at the table. Though, maybe when her friend went to the bathroom, she chugged down her friend's beer.”

“Friend?”

“A friend joined her after a while. Her name was...” Abby snapped her fingers a few times. “Lydia.”

“Thanks.”

Ted grabbed my arm, keeping me from slipping off the bar stool and escaping. Fury jumped in his green eyes. “This is where you've been? Why the hell didn't you answer your phone?”

Steve! I told him ten minutes. I was so focused on gathering information I forgot the time and that Steve said he'd send a search party after me. “I was busy at the moment.”

“Doing what?” Ted worked his jaw back and forth.

“You probably don't want to know.”

“Let's move to a table where it's better suited for conversation.” Ted pointed at the plastic basket container holding my food. “I'll have the same.”

“Are you okay with this?” Abby eyed Ted with suspicion.

“It's all good.” I followed Ted to a corner table in the far end of the room. I plopped into a seat and dismissed hedging around what I'd been doing, or wanted to know. I decided on going with the topic I hoped would put Ted in a better mood.

“Has Bob been released yet?”

Some of the anger slipped from Ted's gaze. “Yes. Bob's gun hadn't been fired and there was no residue on Bob's hand.”

“No reason to hold him so Detective Bell had to let him go.”

“Correct.” Ted leaned back in the chair.

“It took that long to find all that out? Or has Bob been trying to confirm, on his own, the identity of the woman killed yesterday? Apparently, the woman's mom has made an ID.”

The anger returned. “And how do you know this?”

“Because Detective Bell was showing a picture of her to the manager, and some bits of information I heard.”

Ted rested his hand on my wrist. “Let Bell do his job.”

“I'm not stopping him. I'm just trying to make sure he doesn't end his investigation by arresting Steve. There was some reason he wanted to speak to him. And no one will tell me.”

“Steve. Now, I forgot to call.” Ted rubbed his forehead and pulled out his phone. “I found her. She was in the bar getting food.” He paused. “We'll be there in a few.”

“I'm fine.” I leaned over and shouted toward the cell.

Ted placed the phone on the table then covered both of my hands with his. “Sweetheart, I know you mean well but this is something best left to the professionals.”

“Because I'm a woman and can't take care of myself?”

“No. It's because you're not trained. It's that simple, Faith. No chauvinistic reasons. It's not meant as an insult.”

“Fine. Then I'll get training.” I tipped my head back and stared down my nose at him.

Ted's eyes almost bugged out of his head. “You'll what?”

Actually, it was a brilliant idea. Probably the best I had all day. “I learned combat-training skills in the military. It's been awhile, so I'll take some self-defense classes and brush up on them. And, I'll do some reading up on West Virginia law. Become more familiar with it.”

I liked my plan the more I talked about it.

Ted, on the other hand, looked a little green. He propped an elbow on the table and dropped his head into his hand. “That's not what I meant.”

“But it's a smart thing to do.”

“You are not going to continue to investigate crimes. That's the police's job.”

“Is that what you told Bob when he became a private investigator?”

“No.” Ted groaned and smacked himself in the forehead. “Please don't. The town of Eden does not need a private investigator.”

I hadn't planned on a career change. Then again, I didn't want my past dragged out whenever I had a case. It would complicate things too much. It was time I faced the fact that the truth would get out one day and it was better coming from me. I was
so
not looking forward to explaining this all to my grandmothers.

“The way to solve this case is figuring out how many people are pretending to be someone else, why, and if Morgan was using it against them like he did me,” I said. “I have two people on my list: Marsha and Violet.”

“You're certain that you saw this Violet arguing with Morgan.”

“I'm pretty sure it's her and then there's the fact she had pictures of me, Steve, where we lived, and worked in her tote. I need to know why she had those pictures. Did she take those photos herself or did she swipe them from Morgan?”

“Last night you never explained how you came across those.”

“Probably because none of you would've wanted to know, or about the potential evidence that was contaminated in Marsha's room.”

Ted groaned and dropped his head onto the table. It hit with a resounding thunk. “Put me out of my misery and spill it.”

So I did.