“Darlene will be arriving soon. I texted her for help. She’s good at organizing and restoring order.”
“That’s because no one likes arguing with her.” Steve walked around the table and stood behind Marsha.
“You’re right.” My heart and body yearned to remain close to Steve for a while longer. “I left Garrison in charge but didn’t give him any instructions. Shoppers aren’t going to be too happy.”
“You’re fine for now. I think the attendees were more interested in the arguing going on over here than shopping. That won’t last too long.”
Darlene walked into the room carrying a small box. “Being prepared is the first step in winning battles. I needed to go upstairs and get my kit. Stand aside.”
The women parted and Darlene made her way behind the table. She dropped into a seat and immediately took charge. She lightly slapped a spot in front of her. “The current seating chart goes right here. To the right side, all requests for changes, and to the left all cancellations.”
Marsha just stared at Darlene.
Darlene snapped her fingers. “Let’s get on with it.”
With trembling hands, Marsha held up a haphazard stack of papers.
“I see we’re starting from scratch. Steve, you sort. I’ll create a new chart, and you…” she pointed at Marsha, “separate these croppers into three lines: preregistered attendees who don’t need any changes, those that need changes, and on-site registrants.”
Before Marsha even got out of her seat, the women started shuffling themselves into lines.
I tore myself away from watching Darlene work and went over to Scrap This. Sometime in the last few minutes, Bob had discretely made his way into the room and was helping Garrison take care of the store. Being unobtrusive was probably a skill a private eye needed to perfect. They huddled over the binder I had made with a tab sheet of paper for every attendee—every attendee that had pre-registered up to yesterday.
“Here are the keys to the trailer. I moved it for you!” Bob tossed the keys toward me.
The keys sailed toward my head. I ducked and covered. They clattered to the floor, landing near my feet.
“You were supposed to catch,” Bob said.
“I was worried about getting clunked in the head. Your aim was off.” I fetched the keys.
“My throwing was on target. It’s your catching abilities that need work,” Bob said.
“You can get back to cropping.” I shooed at Garrison.
“Are you sure? Even with Bob here…” he nudged his boyfriend with his elbow, “you’ll be manning the store yourself.”
“I can handle it. I know Bob has some work he needs to get done.”
“Right, that’s why.” Garrison tried hiding a grin.
Bob shook his head, attention directed at his phone.
“Steve should be done playing sentry guard soon. Everyone seems intent on getting their cropping space set up rather than shopping right now. Bob and I can manage it.”
After Garrison went to the cropping table, I settled into the chair besides Bob. “Any luck yet?”
“Nope. My informant overheard the paramedic talking about a television show, not the woman he brought in.”
My shoulders sagged. “I was hoping we found that piece of the puzzle.”
“That’s why it’s always important to confirm information before reacting on it.” Bob studied the binder. “You have a list of everyone attending.”
“It’s our running tab sheet.” I scooted closer to Bob and flipped through the book. “Customers don’t want to have to run credit cards through multiple times, so we keep a running tab on what they purchased.”
“You write it all down?”
I pointed at our credit card processor. “I use our machine as a calculator and input the costs, then I tear off the sheet and staple it to the attendees’ tab sheet.”
“And the attendees don’t mind their names being passed onto you?”
“No one’s complained yet.”
“If someone doesn’t show up you’ll know?” Bob closed the binder.
“Not everyone shops.”
Bob looked around the room. “It looks like scrapbooking seconds as a means for a massive shopping expedition. All these ladies seem to have their own mini-stores.”
“True. Some women save their entire yearly scrapbook budget to attend a retreat. Most people have a stockpile of supplies or they take the cast-offs from their friends.”
Bob lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Would you consider taking credit card payments now? If any flags come up on an account, let me know and I can track down the person responsible. And if anyone balks at showing their driver’s license, I know who to take a look at.”
“I’ve been debating it. It’ll be a big change from the way retreats are normally run. I don’t want the attendees thinking I don’t trust them to be good for the amount.”
“Could you offer a discount?”
“A small one. I just hope it’s enough to offset any offense they might feel.”
“Tell them it’s a new machine and if you do a little at a time, you can work out any kinks. Cut down on training time.”
“I’m willing to give it a go. We have to protect them from…”
Bob’s eyes narrowed as a cropper walked by.
“From any mistakes I might make that will affect their credit.” I needed to work on my secret-keeping methods. It seemed everything I wanted quiet kept getting out.
“One hundred women.” I gazed at the growing number of croppers in the room. “You have to have something to go on. Scar. Speech impediment. Weird habit.”
“She’s one of those people with a nondescript appearance. No distinguishing marks. Average height. Hair color, eye color, and weight can change. She’s a chameleon. Her weaknesses are crafting, soda, photography, and creating stories. I tracked her to Bridgeport about three days ago.”
“That describes almost every woman attending this retreat.”
“Which is why I think she’ll be here,” Bob said. “It’s the perfect cover while she gets her bearings.”
Women huddled together pointing at pages and laughing. Others wrote carefully across pages. They went through stacks of photos. Everyone had brought pictures and memorabilia that told their life stories.
“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 and 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 more colorful, whimsical 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.
Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death Page 11
