While I waited for Ted’s response, I went to the bar to look for Marsha. I walked in and groaned.
Marsha sat a table in the corner. Her messy ponytail was even messier than earlier. One shoulder of her tunic had slipped off to reveal bare skin and the strap of a tank top. Bottles of beer created a semi-circle of temptation in front of her. Or at least I hoped it was still only temptation.
I stopped at the bar and pointed at the table where Marsha sat. “Can we get some coffee?”
“Sure. Is she going to drink it, or stare at it?” The bartender went back into the small kitchen area behind the bar.
“Hopefully just stare at it,” I said. My back pocket vibrated. I plucked my cell out. It was a text from Bob.
Where are you?
The bar. I hit send. What had he found in the car? I hoped it was evidence to arrest Morgan for the woman’s murder, or whatever crime he planned on committing.
Stay put. He responded back.
I’d love to wait around but I didn’t think that would help Marsha at all. She believed five o’clock started now. I needed to get her out of here before she drank anymore. I’ll be here or in the cropping room.
Sending backup.
“Here’s your coffee.” The bartender placed two mugs of steaming coffee onto a tray.
I tucked my phone into my pocket before picking up the mugs. “I’ll take them over myself.”
Marsha stared forlornly at the beers around her. I didn’t know why she thought alcohol would help. It’d only make everything worse. The crop had some hiccups but it wasn’t too late to quiet them and get everything back on track.
Of course, the hit-and-run was a lot more than a little wrench; it was a tragedy that we might need to address with the croppers sometime this weekend.
“I bought us some coffee. I figured you had enough of your first choice of beverage.” I placed the mugs down on the table and nudged a bottle of beer. It wouldn’t budge. All of the bottles were full. Marsha hadn’t succumbed to her addiction. Yet.
“I’ve had nowhere near that amount,” Marsha spoke to the table. A can of grape soda was hidden among the bottles of beer.
“Drinking isn’t going to make this day less stressful for you.”
“This weekend is about to implode on me.” Marsha lined up the full bottles of beer in front of her, lovingly stroking each one as she moved it into position. It looked like an army of soldiers marching into battle.
I eased one of the amber bottles away from Marsha. Having temptation so close was never a good idea.
Marsha whispered something that sounded very much like “it was me.”
“I didn’t catch that.”
Marsha leaned across the table, her mouth inches from my ear. “That woman who got killed, it was supposed to be me.”
I gaped at her. “Why would someone want to kill you?”
Tears glittered in her eyes. She swiped them away and dropped back into the chair. “Because I’m hated.”
“By who?” I studied the beer bottles. Maybe she sipped from each one and was drunk. With as many beers she had before her, it was possible.
She scooted closer to me. The chair legs screeched.
I turned sideways, facing her.
“I think my ex-husband hired someone to kill me,” she whispered.
“You saw who was in the car?” How did Bell miss talking to her? I told him that Marsha was standing at the curb when the car sped out from the lot.
“No.” Marsha reached across the table and drew some of the bottles toward her. She clung to them like they were a security blanket. “I didn’t see the driver. I just know he isn’t the type to do something like that himself.”
“You should tell Detective Bell.” I stood.
Marsha grabbed me arm and tugged me down. “I can’t. Not right now. My ex isn’t the type of person you make a false accusation against. If I’m wrong, he’ll then know where I am and come after me. I don’t want to risk my life.”
“But if you’re right—”
Marsha pressed a trembling hand to her chest. “I don’t want anyone to know it’s my fault she died. What will that do to the crop and Cropportunity?”
If she was right, the business was the least of her worries. “I still think you should tell the detective. If you don’t want to tell him, there’s a friend of mine who can help you.”
The door opened. Garrison walked in.
“Hello ladies.” Noting the multitude of beer bottles on the table, Garrison raised an eyebrow. “Are we celebrating something?”
I picked up one of the bottles and wiggled it back and forth, sloshing beer onto my hand and the table. “They’re full.”
“I’m not drinking them, just buying.” Marsha held one index finger in the air. “Another one.”
“Your partner said no further alcohol purchases on the company’s rooms,” the bartender said.
“I might have a credit card with me.” Marsha reached over, grasped a purse, and plopped it onto her lap. She rummaged around inside. “I got a lot of stuff in here. I need to clean this purse out more often.”
“I hate to interrupt but there’s a slight issue at the crop,” Garrison said.
“Lydia can handle it.” Marsha let the purse slip from her lap and brought a bottle of beer close to her, almost hugging it to her bosom.
“She’s not in the room right now. The volunteer at the registration desk doesn’t know what to do.”
“I’ll head over there in a few minutes.” Marsha added a sigh at the end.
“It might get worse by then. There’s an issue regarding a seating assignment. Apparently, a change wasn’t noted and now a cropper who shouldn’t be at a table is, and one who should isn’t.”
I groaned. If there was one type of drama that could get out of hand quickly at a crop, it was seat assignments.
“Tell her to go by the table chart I made. There is a spot for every paid attendee.” Marsha placed her purse back onto the floor.
“Your chart is the problem,” Garrison said.
Marsha heaved a large tote onto the table. She yanked files from it and slapped them on the table. “If these women stopped making last minute changes everything would be fine. I had three emails last night. Two this morning. When will it end?”
I patted her hand. “We’ll help. I’ve managed crops for Scrap This, and Garrison is a doctor so I’m sure he’s good with schedules.”
Garrison opened up the folder. “I work at the ER so I’m used to hectic. We’ll help you get this sorted out.”
“How?” She pulled sheets of paper out of the tote and waved them in air. “This woman wants to sit with three particular women, and one of those three doesn’t want to sit with her. How can I make them all happy? This was supposed to be easy.”
Marsha was one lucky gal to have always cropped with women who got along. Even my grandmothers and I had moments when we need a few feet more of table space between us.
“I think I’ll move these out of the way so we have space to work.” Garrison picked up a few bottles and motioned for the bartender. The bartender came over with a tray and in a few seconds all the beer was gone.
Marsha stared at the mass of paper in front of her. “Lydia is right. I’m a major screw-up, and if this business busts it’s all my fault. Again.”
I kept quiet, knowing now was a time for silence. I was intrigued about the dynamic between the two business partners. If Marsha had a habit of making huge mistakes and a drinking problem, why did Lydia put her in control of the make-it-or-break aspects of the crop?
“One seating issue isn’t going to ruin you,” Garrison said.
Garrison must not attend crops much, or else cropped with a more amicable set of people. Sitting a bickering duo together migh
t not break a crop, but it would make for an unpleasant weekend for a lot of people. “Does the dissenter say why she doesn’t want to sit with that particular cropper?”
Marsha shuffled through the forms. “We didn’t have a space for reasons why you don’t want to sit by someone.”
I leaned across the table to get a look at the registration form. “She might have offered an unsolicited reason.”
“I’m hoping so.” Marsha scanned the paper then flipped it over and looked at the back. “Nothing.”
“Check the sheets of the other women. Maybe there’s a clue on one of them.”
Marsha shoved the stack at me. “You figure it out.”
The door opened and some women entered, grumbling about the delay in being able to set up. As this was a group of six wearing matching scrapbook slogan t-shirts, I figured they weren’t the embattled croppers.
I read through the forms. The “excluded cropper” had noted she wanted to sit under an air-conditioning vent. I bet the “excluder” was on the cold-blooded side and didn’t want to freeze all weekend. We could work with this.
“Have this group sit at one of the tables near Scrap This.” I tugged the seating chart from the bottom of the pile. It was a hodgepodge of highlighting, writing, and cross-outs. No one, probably even Marsha, could make heads or tails from it.
I circled a four-person table with only two croppers at it. “Put the group of four with the dissenter here so she can have a seat with her back to the window. That should keep her warm during the day.”
“And these two?” Marsha tapped the page.
“Do you mind if you were moved?” I showed the chart to Garrison. Bob and Garrison had been placed at a table near the front of the crop room near a door –one of the least desirable spots since it was the main exit into and out of the cropping area.
“As long as we’re together, Bob and I won’t care,” Garrison said.
“Perfect.” I jotted down Bob and Garrison in the two spaces left at Gussie and Darlene’s table. One of those spots was for me to crop at when things got slow, but as Bob wasn’t a scrapper I could still set up my crafting station and it would help Bob “sell” his cover. “All fixed.”
Marsha studied it. The stress on her face dissolved. “This will work. I’ll just go pretty it up.”
The door opened.
Morgan.
He looked around the room and when he spotted Garrison and me, a slow smile spread across his face. He sauntered inside. Apparently, whatever he wanted to say to me, he had no problems saying in front of an audience.
I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. No cowering.
“So we meet up again.” Morgan walked two fingers down my arm.
I smacked his hand away. “No. This is not a meeting. It’s more like a bad stalking attempt.”
Garrison shifted his chair back.
Morgan moved Marsha’s tote to the floor. “Mind if I join you?”
“Yes,” I said.
Marsha frowned. “I didn’t give you permission to move my stuff.”
“I don’t need it,” Morgan said. “So what are you gals gossiping about?”
Garrison kept quiet, anger brewing in his gaze. What was going on? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Morgan knew Garrison and had made a bigoted comment. But how could he? Did Garrison treat the federal agent at one time?
“All the clucking stops when a man comes in the room.” Morgan picked up Marsha’s coffee and drank some. “Could use sugar. What’s all this?”
As he reached for the seating chart, I tugged it toward me. “We’re working on the retreat.”
“Ah yes, the scrapbooking thing. Your cover for the weekend.” Morgan grinned and leaned back in the chair.
I wished he would topple over and smack his head. I knew I shouldn’t cater to the uncharitable thought but I allowed the image to play in my head for a few seconds before I shut it off.
“Cover?” Marsha evil-eyed me and then Morgan. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“I want to know now.” Marsha clenched her hands.
Without a word, Morgan righted the chair, and kicked Marsha’s tote over. Wallet, lipstick, and cards littered the carpet. He stood and chose to walk the long way around the table, inching past Marsha.
Marsha scooped up her possessions while avoiding getting her fingers stepped on.
Morgan pressed against Garrison’s chair, shoving him into the edge of the table.
Garrison grimaced.
“Hey!” I jumped up.
Morgan pivoted and faced me. “Pardon me. I didn’t know I bumped into him.”
“You rammed into Garrison on purpose.” I balled up my hands.
“Let it go, Faith.” Garrison stood.
Morgan sent a look of disgust at Garrison. “Trust me, I wouldn’t touch him.”
“Is there a problem?” The bartender walked out from behind the bar.
“Only if that person touches me.” Morgan used his chin to point at Garrison.
“You can take your attitude out of here.” The bartender gestured at the door. “And I mean now.”
“You’re throwing me out.” Morgan seemed to size up the bartender.
The bartender smiled. “I’d love the chance to throw you.”
“This isn’t over.” Morgan made a gun with his fingers and “fired” it at me.
“Who the hell was that guy?” Marsha glared at Morgan’s retreating figure.
“Trouble,” I said.
“A private investigator.” Garrison stacked the papers into a neat pile.
I was right! Morgan wasn’t a federal agent. But why would he blow his “cover” by confronting me in front of Garrison? Because Morgan doesn’t care if you know.
Fear jolted me upright. The man wanted my confession and would use anything to get it. He pretended to be an agent and it didn’t work. Now, he upped the threat by dragging Garrison into my problem.
“What’s he doing here?” Marsha clutched her tote. “Do you think he was hired to find me?”
Garrison studied her. “Why would someone be looking for you?”
Marsha glanced around then stretched herself across the table. She wiggled her finger, beckoning Garrison to come forward.
He complied.
“I’m done with my marriage. My ex-husband isn’t.”
He patted her hand. “Did you tell the police?”
“I don’t want to tell the police.”
“You should.” Garrison squeezed her hand gently. “Keeping this a secret will only hurt you.”
Marsha readjusted her ponytail. “I can’t. If he isn’t here, my talking to the police will bring him here.”
Poor Marsha. No wonder she was so frazzled. I exchanged a concerned look with Garrison.
He mouthed “Bob.”
While Garrison and I kept our eye out for an ID thief, Bob could make sure Marsha’s ex—or his hired goon—stayed away from her.
“My life-partner has had some dealings with Morgan in the past. The guy is a bully for hire. The cases that man takes are usually ones to dig up dirt about someone. The police know that. They don’t trust that guy.”
Marsha sniffled. “But what if they do?”
“They won’t,” I said. “You’re not the only person that guy is here to make miserable.”
“Who else?” Marsha asked.
“Me. He’s determined to prove that I’m a murderer.”
“You? Why?” Garrison asked.
Garrison and Marsha shared the same confused expression.
“I guess to make a name for himself. I helped solve some murders. He’s determined to prove that the reason I could was because I committed them an
d set up other people to take the fall.”
“And I thought I was in trouble.” Marsha squeezed my hand. “I wished the bartender left those drinks. I think you could use one.”
My cell phone buzzed against my derrière. I snagged it. Ted.
“I have to take this.” I scurried out of the bar. Play it calm. Cool. Collected. No need to let him know how rattled I was by Morgan. I headed for the conference center. An officer was speaking to the clerk and I didn’t want him overhearing.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“What in the world have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t usually involve being talked to by a Federal agent. And, what is with all the license plates?”
“I haven’t done anything. And he’s not a Federal agent, just likes going around saying he is. Bob asked me to send you the plates.”
“Bob? He has you helping him?” The fury in Ted’s voice was unmistakable. “And how do you know this agent is a fake?”
“You sure do have a lot of questions.”
“You need to start giving the answers or I’m coming there and will wring them out of Bob.”
“Threatening your sibling isn’t very nice.”
“Involving you in his case wasn’t smart.”
“He didn’t involve me, at least not where the faux FBI agent is concerned. That’s pretty much my own doing. Morgan joined me for coffee when Garrison was there. He said the louse is a private investigator. A bully for hire. ”
Ted cursed, a long string of four letter-words, and a few interesting combinations of them.
“I take it you know him too.”
“I know a guy named Morgan who’s a PI. One of the good things about leaving my prior job was not having to deal with him anymore. The guy is a dirt fabricator. He usually works for paparazzi and political candidates who want dirt on the opposing candidate. He’ll use any means to get information and has no interest if something is the truth or not. Why is that guy following you around?”
I glanced around the area. A few croppers were tugging luggage carts into the area but no one lingered about. They paid quite a bit to crop this weekend and planned on using every minute possible. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death Page 8
