EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (5 page)

“Is it secured? Might be something I should consider getting for the retreat.”

“From everything I read, the mobile POS is more secure than credit card readers in stores,” I said.

“We wouldn't need it for inventory but if we're going to have online registrations...” Lydia halted and rubbed at a spot on her forehead. “Though I'm now thinking it wasn't such a good idea. I only have few places left and if someone comes after I've officially sold out, I'm doomed.”

“I can help out with that. I have two extra helpers that could use a cropping spot. They got roped into donating their muscles for lifting and hauling, so I figured I'd ask before all the spots are gone.”

“Names?” Lydia poised a pen above the clipboard.

“Just put them down as Scrap This. I'll pay for the spots.” I wasn't sure if Bob wanted his name on the list since he was here undercover. And Detective Bell might have something to say, or do, about Bob signing up for the retreat.

“I'll save two of them. And since I'm going to do that for you, I'll need you to do a favor for me.” Lydia glanced around the room. She wiggled her finger at me and speed-walked toward the back of the room.

The sun pouring through the windows heated my skin. I wished I brought a portable fan. I had a feeling our space would get uncomfortably warm in the afternoon and there was only so much apparel a gal could take off before it became inappropriate.

I followed Lydia down a faux hallway that stretched from one end of the conference center to the other. Half-closed partitioned walls and the picture windows bracketed the passage way. At one end of the hallway was a solid wall separating the conference center from the resort, and at the other end there were two metal doors with kitchen written on it in bright white one foot letters.

Lydia headed toward the kitchen. She stopped in a secluded area away from general traffic and the sun. She heaved out a huge sigh.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

She scanned the empty hallway, taking hold of my arm and drawing me closer.

“Is everything okay?” I repeated, keeping my voice just above a whisper.

“For now yes,” Lydia said. “But I'm worried it might not be.”

My brain and nerves hummed. I pressed my mouth closed to make sure I didn't blurt out any questions that had nothing to do with Lydia's concerns.

“I hate saying this and being a gossip but it's about Marsha. I just need someone to keep an eye on her.” Lydia used her fingers to scoop her hair away from her face. “I have some errands to run and I'm concerned since Marsha seems to be struggling today. I don't want to tell anyone, but since it slipped out earlier, I figured you were safe.”

“Maybe it would be better to reschedule your errands. If Marsha isn't feeling well,” I went with a less judgmental term, “it might be better for you to be here if anything comes up.”

“That's the whole point. I want Marsha feeling well and if she's in charge, she'll have to handle it herself. She can't bail on me. I need you to keep an eye out on her.”

“I have the store to run.” And an identity thief to zero in on.

“You have a helper.”

“He's out of commission right now. Besides, my main job needs to be managing my store. The owners are counting on me and I need to show them I can handle it. If I'm playing babysitter, I'm not running it.” At least looking for an identity thief protected our business. Babysitting Marsha, not so much.

Lydia covered her face with her hands and drew in a shaky breath. “I didn't want to admit this, but I need to go the bank.”

“Now?”

She nodded, hands still hiding her face. “Our credit card was declined by the hotel. I called the bank and they said I need to go in person to straighten it out.”

“Okay.” This was the first real clue the identity thief arrived at the crop.

“Thank you.” Lydia hugged me then pulled out her phone. “I'm going to confirm my appointment right now. You're a life saver.”

There was one change I was making to our procedures for the weekend: running credit cards through either at time of purchase or each night. Usually at retreats, vendors would let a customer run a tab all weekend and then check them out on the final day. But knowing one of the croppers planned on paying with someone else's credit, that method suddenly didn't seem like the wisest plan of action.

Maybe a discount would settle down any annoyance. Either that or I'd tell the croppers Steve didn't know how to operate the credit card machine so it would be better if I ran them through a little at a time. I just hoped no one questioned why I planned on having him run the store rather than packing up the supplies and carting them into the trailer. I'd go with the excuse that Steve wasn't good at color coordinating and I didn't want him to mix up all the hues. Sometimes the most clichéd reason was the one least questioned.

Lydia hustled down the hallway, straight for the other side of the building. Either she planned on speaking to the manager first or planned on going out the hotel portion of the resort doors. It was the better option for getting away before a cropper spotted her and waylaid her into a conversation. Lydia's face was
the face
of Cropportunity. She'd turned herself into a mini-scrapbook celebrity in our part of West Virginia.

“I can't believe someone parked that disgusting truck out there.” A woman exaggerated a shiver. “A toilet.”

“That guy did say it was one of the vendor trucks and not because of plumbing problems at the hotel.”

“Just think of the type of stuff normally carried in the back of that trailer. Toilets. Plumbing equipment. And now, products being sold to use on our photos are in there.”

I flinched. The trailer wasn't good advertising for the resort or Scrap This. I hoped I could find a place to park it where it wasn't that noticeable. Heck, I hoped I could actually park it. Arriving croppers glared at our truck and trailer. It was taking up a large portion of the unloading zone. Not a good idea to tick off your potential customers.

Sneaking outside, I peered into the trailer: three boxes and a handcart. No problem. Using all my strength, I lifted and pushed the lift gate into place. I stood on my toes and secured the safety latches. Fortunately, they weren't at the top of the trailer like the handle. I surveyed the parking lot. There were four spots at the furthest end of the lot on the convention center side. A row of trees shaded ten spaces. It looked large enough for me to park there, and there was a curb I could stand on and reach the handle. I'd have to make a longer trip to the convention center, but I had a handcart. I hoped the manager didn't mind I filled up all those spots with the truck and trailer. There was no way I'd be able to fit it anywhere else without damaging something.

Taking in a deep breath, I yanked open the driver side door.

I settled into the seat. Where did Steve put the keys? He might have taken them with him. But knowing Steve as I did, he would've left them somewhere in case there was an emergency and the trailer needed moved.

The glove compartment? Nothing. Under the seat? I felt around. Nothing. The passenger seat? I crawled over the console and checked underneath. Bingo. The keys. I shoved the key into the ignition. Now to start this baby up and get it moving. I prayed pulling into the empty spaces would be as easy as I envisioned.

After a few jerky starts and stops, I figured out the pressure I needed to use on the gas pedal and inched the mobile Scrap This store away from the loading zone. The moment the bumper cleared the awning, a van zoomed up

I parked the truck and trailer. I scrambled out and for a few minutes stood to the side and admired my work.

The strap to pull down the door was still out of my reach. I just discovered I had a talent for parking large vehicles, so maybe I also possessed some high jumping skills. I jumped, almost face-planting into the metal door and twisting my ankle when I landed on the edge of the curb.

Okay, bad idea. I needed to admit defeat and find someone taller.

A dark-haired man wearing a WVU golf shirt sauntered toward me. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

“The handle is a little out of my reach.”

“I can see.” He tugged down the door.

I jogged up the ramp.

“It looks like you're about done.” The man looked into the trailer. “I can carry those boxes for you.”

“I got it from here. Thanks for your help…” I paused and waited for him to supply his name.

“A lot of women attend this scrap thing.” He looked at two women entering the convention center with large rolling totes.

“About a hundred,” I said. And one of them was the woman Bob needed to find. I hoped for Bob's sake, and the victim of the identity thief, that he found her before the event ended on Sunday. It would be hard to track her down once she left the building.

The man climbed in. He stretched out his arms, placing one hand on either side of the opening. The trailer darkened. “I was hoping we could speak privately.”

Fear clawed at my chest. I breathed deeply to steady myself. No need to panic. The trailer door was open, and people unloading nearby vehicles were a scream away. Or maybe not. I parked at the far end, and the back of the trailer faced the building. There was no reason for anyone to walk past the trailer unless they wanted to find me.

“I'd rather not.” I kept my voice steady and attempted to walk past him.

He matched my movement, blocking me from getting out.

“I need to go back to my store.”

“We could talk there, but I'm certain you'd rather we keep this between us.” The man took a wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and showed me a badge. “My name is Morgan. I work undercover for the FBI.”

The FBI? The fear in the pit of my belly turned into terror. My ears buzzed like bees got stuck in them. Why in the world was an FBI agent at the crop? Why did he want to talk to me?

“I'm sure you're going to keep quiet about my being here. It's not a fact that should get around.”

“Since I don't know anything that'll be easy to do.” I judged the distance and space between him and the door. I might be able to get past him before he reacted.

“Come now, Faith, don't act like your activities wouldn't have come to our attention.”

Shudders crept along my skin when he made the point to drop my name.

“Scrapbooking doesn't seem like it would interest the FBI,” I choked out.

“True. But a woman pushing her way into two homicide cases does interest us, especially when another just happened to occur in her presence. So many coincidences.” He looked me up and down. The limited light in the trailer made his expression impossible to read.

I heard my ragged breathing. I needed to remain calm. Nothing signaled guilt more than an overreaction of any type. Long ago memories wrapped around me, making it hard to breath. I did not like being interrogated by police. Guilty always seemed to be the assumption made no matter what.

Drawing in deep breaths, I tried settling myself down. I had done nothing wrong. The car that killed the woman had almost struck me. There's no way he could point the blame at me, and why was he trying to? I wasn't trying to solve the murder, if there actually was one; so far the only confirmation was what I thought I saw and this intense guy's accusation.

“I need to get back to work,” I said.

“Off to solve another murder, or should I say... frame someone for the crime you put into action.”

I wanted away from this man. “I don't do murders. Think what you want but there are witnesses who know I had nothing to do with what happened to that woman. I was almost run down.”

“Of course you were. There's nothing like portraying yourself as a victim to have people discount your involvement. You're quite a natural at it.”

I tried inching my way past him.

Morgan grabbed hold of my arm, bringing me to a halt. “Miss Hunter, I know a lot about you.
We
know a lot about you.”

I really, really, really didn't like the pronoun “we.” Images of my past slithered into my head and heart. The pain in my stomach increased.

“Others don't know that Kane wasn't your first murder.” He looked right into my eyes.

Coldness washed over me. I hated what I saw in his gaze. A knowingness. Cruelty. Power. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He let out a small laugh. “Come now. Your first case was when you solved that murder in Germany. Now do you remember? Your naïve, I'm the victim, little backwoods West Virginian act fooled the military. You pinned a murder on Adam Westcott and I'm the man who's going to make you finally confess.”

“Miss Hunter, you cannot park that there.” An angry voice boomed.

The manager. I was saved. Though, I wished it was Detective Bell coming to scold me.

“In the trailer!”

Morgan yanked me right up against him. He leaned his head forward and whispered into my ear. “I know how you operate. You won't get to play victim on my watch. No one but you will take the fall for that woman's murder.”

I knocked into Morgan. He careened sideways, smacking his shoulder into the side of the trailer. I scurried out from the dark enclosure and into the welcoming heat and bustle going on in the parking lot.

More croppers had arrived and dragged, tugged, and finagled bags of various sizes and colors into the conference center.

Morgan exited right after me, carrying a box. He slid a look, a mix of keep-your-mouth-shut and a leer, at me. “I'll take this one in for you. Glad I can be of some assistance.”

“ I hope you're not planning on leaving this parked here.” The manager slapped his palm near the toilet.

“There's nowhere else.” I embraced my annoyance, wanting the emotion to push out all the fear. Fear never did me any good.