Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  I walked outside. A warm breeze flickered through the air and played with the ends of my hair. After looking both ways, I stepped out into the parking lot, paying careful attention to the area where the woman got run over. I stared at the vehicles parked in the back row. One of them belonged to the victim.

  Or maybe not. The police, from what I knew, were still trying to figure out the woman’s identity. If a car belonged to her, then they would know. And it’s not like they’d tell me or Bob. Ted would.

  Or at least he’d tell Bob.

  From now on, I’d carry some type of identification in my pocket—unless I didn’t want someone knowing who I was. The victim being the ID thief was the only solution that made sense to me. No one had had the opportunity to take her wallet from her.

  My “job” in the investigation was to keep an eye on the croppers and make note of anything suspicious. I had a list so far with one name on it. Guessing was doing me no good. I either needed to talk with Marsha or poke around to find out more information on Violet… like asking to see her layouts. Croppers loved sharing their pages with others. It would be the easiest way to learn a little more about her.

  And if Violet refused to let me see any, I had more reason to suspect her.

  I went back into the hotel portion and scanned the area. No Marsha. I’d see if I could get her room number or have the clerk call it for me when I got my key.

  The line went quick and I was standing in front of a frazzled clerk. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to check in.” I gave the clerk my name and soon had a sleeve with two room keys.

  “You’re on the third floor.”

  Right beside Steve, just like how I arranged it when I first signed us up. “Thanks. I was also wondering what room Marsha Smith is in.”

  “I can’t give you that information.” The clerk wrote something on a sheet of paper near her keyboard.

  “Can you call her room for me? We need her in the crop room.”

  The clerk cast a quick look over her shoulder. The manager was in a back room talking with Detective Bell. They were probably still trying to narrow down the identity of the dead woman. Every woman who checked in was one more name Bell could cross off his list.

  “I forgot to get her cell number. I promise from now on I’ll call her on her phone.” I smiled and hoped the pleading in my gaze worked.

  She typed on the keyboard then called Marsha’s room. After a few seconds, she hung up the phone. “No answer.”

  “Thanks.” I scurried away from the desk and headed for the door. I was counting on her being back in the cropping zone and wanted to catch her before she moved again.

  Yanking open the door, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent a quick text to Steve. If you see Marsha, detain her for me. I swiped my finger across the screen and checked the Facebook page for Cropportunity. If there was gossip going on at the crop about Marsha or the hit-and-run, it would’ve made it to social media outlets by now. There was nothing like asking a question publicly to shame people into giving some answers.

  Then something—or someone—body checked me into a door. My shoulder banged into the frame. The cell phone tumbled from my grasp. I started to scream, but a hand covered my mouth before I could reach full volume. My lungs burned. I jerked my arm back and met a not so-toned stomach. It wasn’t flabby, but also not rock-hard. Good thing for me as the blow loosened the person’s hold on me.

  I twisted and faced my attacker. Morgan. I went to shove him. “Stay away from me.”

  Morgan captured my hands and barreled me into the door. The doorknob jabbed into my side. I sucked in a sharp breath and jerked my knee up. I refused to take any more of his abuse.

  Morgan arched away from me. “Don’t try it. There are penalties for assaulting law enforcement.”

  “You’re a liar.” I glared straight into his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You should be.”

  I sensed someone else in the hallway—a shadow against the wall. Part of me hoped they made their presence known, the other part of me screamed silently for them to run. Get help. Get out before Morgan spotted them.

  “I know you’re not FBI.” I wrestled away from his grasp but I was still trapped against the door. “Garrison knows who you really are. I’m surprised you’d think he’d keep it quiet.”

  Morgan placed his hand on my collar bone, keeping me pressed against the door. “Then you should be even more scared.”

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “Or…” Morgan trailed off and grazed his hand down my arm.

  “I’ll shoot you.” Bob’s enraged voice came from a few feet away.

  I turned my head. Bob had a hand on the butt of his revolver.

  Morgan raised his hands and stepped backwards, pivoting toward Bob. “My hands are in clear view.”

  Bob drew his weapon from his holster.

  I backed away from the door and Morgan, making my way toward the one safe spot—the bathroom in the hallway. If I was tucked away in there, I hoped Bob changed his mind about deadly force. While I wanted Morgan to get his comeuppance, I didn’t want Bob getting sent to prison for killing him. Morgan wasn’t worth it.

  “I want you to stay away from her,” Bob said. “Whatever blackmailing you’re doing here isn’t going to work.”

  “I’m trying to let the truth be known, Roget. Isn’t that what you’re here for? Revealing a truth someone doesn’t want anyone else to know…” Morgan said. “How come what I’m doing is worth killing over and what you’re doing isn’t?”

  Bob holstered his weapon. “Get out of here. I better not see you around her again.”

  NINE

  Morgan spun and collided into a cropper wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, gray yoga pants, and Cat in the Hat slippers. He gripped the woman’s arms and pressed his back into the wall, keeping them both upright.

  “Bathroom. Emergency.” She struggled out of his grasp then hurried into the ladies’ room.

  Morgan stormed out the door.

  A scream echoed from the bathroom.

  I ran into the bathroom. Bob was a few paces behind me. The woman in the cat slippers was shaking, her gaze directed at a person lying on the floor of a bathroom stall. I eased her out of the way and looked into the stall

  It was Marsha. Her hair flared around her head, legs tilted daintily to the side, one hand rested on her stomach, the other arm stretch out and bent at an angle like she was reaching for something. She was out cold.

  “He hurt her.” The accusation slipped from me.

  “I’m on it.” Bob ran from the room.

  I knelt beside Marsha and checked her pulse. Steady. I breathed a sigh of relief. I looked at the woman who gaped at the unconscious Marsha. “Call 9-1-1.”

  “I left my phone in the crop room.”

  I went to retrieve mine and realized it was in the hallway. When Morgan rammed into me, I had dropped it. “Mine’s in the hallway. You can use it to call. Or there’s a guy cropping at a table near Scrap This… he’s a doctor. Ask for Garrison.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  I had thought Morgan’s behavior in the hallway was about proving I murdered someone in the past, when it might have been about the present and trying to get rid of a witness who’d tie him to Marsha’s attack. Why Marsha? Was she the ID thief? Marsha Smith was a very benign name. It sounded fake. The pill bottle had “Ma” on it.

  Why would Marsha take on a role that put her somewhat in the public eye if she was hiding from people who wanted to kill her… or drag her to jail?

  I examined her for any obvious signs of injury. Nothing.

  There weren’t any pictures of Marsha anywhere on the Cropportunity website or the social media pages. I chalked it up to her being embarrassed by her appe
arance or camera-shy. Marsha was attractive and dressed nicely even though she liked plain styles and neutral colors. No reason to fear the camera, unless a woman didn’t want anyone being able to find her.

  Marsha stirred a bit, and moaned.

  “You’ll be okay.” I smoothed hair back from Marsha’s forehead, looking for a bruise or some other indication of a head injury. A breath puffed out from her, followed by a medicine smell.

  I wrinkled my nose.

  “What’s wrong?” Garrison’s voice entered the restroom right before he did.

  “I don’t know. Bob and I heard a woman scream and ran in here and found Marsha unconscious.”

  Garrison placed his hands on my arms. Without any more encouragement, I stepped to the side, getting out of the doctor’s way. He knelt beside her.

  All of a sudden, Marsha’s breathing hitched and a loud snore echoed through the room. Garrison leaned back a little and let out a cleansing breath. He motioned for me to come closer. “I have a feeling she’s had a bit to drink.”

  Drinking and cropping went hand in hand. For some croppers, necessary supplies to bring were bottles of wines, coolers, and beer. A few even brought blenders from home so they could make margaritas in their rooms. Marsha had plenty of ways, besides the bar, to get a drink this weekend. Running scrapbooking retreats wasn’t the best business for a recovering alcoholic. Detective Bell’s announcement must have sent her over the edge.

  “What are we going to do?” I sat back on my heels and looked at Garrison.

  “We’re going to take Marsha to her room and let her sleep this off.” Garrison hoisted Marsha into his arms.

  Fortunately, Marsha carried her room key in the sleeve with the room number written on it in her back pocket. I slid the card into the slot. The light turned green.

  Garrison shifted the snoring woman in his arms. “She’s not as light as she looks.”

  “I recommend you not tell her that.”

  “I don’t plan on having a conversation with her about this.” Garrison carried her over the hotel room threshold.

  Both beds had clothes strewn about them. I grabbed the garments from the bed closest to the door and placed them on the one next to the windows. A laptop hummed from the desk located near the window.

  Garrison deposited Marsha onto the bed. She snored and rolled onto her side.

  I slipped her shoes off. “Should I cover her up?”

  “I don’t think she should be left alone.” Garrison settled the intoxicated woman onto her side, using pillows to prop her up.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” I hovered nearby. People died from alcohol poisoning. Maybe taking care of her ourselves, to save her from embarrassment, wasn’t such a good idea.

  He checked her vital signs. “That’s not necessary. Sleeping it off will be safe unless she’s on some kind of medication.”

  “I’ll go look in the bathroom.” I figured it was the most likely place Marsha kept medication. I liked being useful and taking action. Standing around doing nothing never set well with me. Of course, doing anything was usually what got me into trouble. At least this time, I had actually plans and reasons for my actions.

  “I’ll find Lydia and ask her if Marsha takes any prescriptions or over-the-counter medication.”

  “Also, check if Marsha left a bag at the registration table in the crop room. She might keep her medications with her. Tell Steve what’s going on so he doesn’t worry, and if you can, make sure he’s still feeling okay.”

  “Will do.” Garrison saluted me and smiled.

  On the vanity in the bathroom, I found her make-up bag filled with a variety of cosmetics. Hair spray. Hair straightener. A fancy, high-powered hair dryer. Three different types of brushes completed the hair routine collection. Round. Flat. Curved. It made no sense to use all those brushes for blow drying her hair when she planned on ironing it flat.

  I walked out of the bathroom. Marsha continued snoring. I shuddered. No wonder Lydia wasn’t splitting a room with her, though being roommates might have helped ensure Marsha stayed on the wagon.

  I paused, pivoted, and headed back into the bathroom. I searched in all areas possible for alcohol. Either Marsha drank it all or she hadn’t planned on her demon finding her at the retreat. Or she hid alcohol in other parts of the room. I knew it was none of my business what another adult did, but I didn’t want the woman imploding her own life because of a bad choice. It was one thing to get scammed and have to admit it, and another to go back down the dark road of an addiction. It turned a person into someone else entirely and left hearts broken all over the place. Some of those scars were hard to mend.

  I went over to the nightstand and opened up the drawer. A vinyl tote bag embroidered with Meds in bright red filled the space beside the Gideon Bible. Quickly, I unzipped the bag and dumped out the contents onto the comforter.

  A folded piece of paper was mixed in the sealed packages of over-the-counter pain relief, stomach relief, and sinus medication. If anyone had a minor ailment this weekend, Marsha could hook them right up. I straightened out the paper. It was a list of names and numbers. Sixteen numbers by each name. My stomach tightened. Credit card numbers.

  I took in a deep breath and tried settling down the conspiracy theories going through my brain. Marsha had a good reason for having those numbers. I recalled the trouble Marsha had working the credit card reader on her phone. The signal kept timing out. Marsha must have planned to go through Paypal, or she had a system on her computer that allowed her to type in the numbers.

  A warehouse store membership card caught my attention. I examined the picture. I looked at Marsha then back at the card. I repeated the process a few times. It could be Marsha as a red-head and a slightly darker complexion. A few weeks in the sun would create that color of golden skin. Or it could be Lydia. Both of the women’s facial structures were similar. Then again, Violet Hancock also had the same oval shaped face, thin lips and small, rounded nose.

  The name on the card spellbound me: Marcia Smyth. Whoever was in charge of inputting information that day sure did put in a creative spelling. Why would Marsha accept the card with her name wrong… if the card belonged to Marsha?

  Was the identity thief targeting Marsha? She had a very common name. What better way to begin swiping an identity than by using a little creative spelling to start with, intending to fix it later.

  Marsha snorted again then flopped onto her back, her arms spread out. The pillows slid to the floor.

  Should I take it and show it to Bob? I flicked the edge of the card. How would I explain it to Marsha? I could fill Bob in without showing it to him. Marsha wasn’t doing anything wrong by having the card, and there might be a reason she didn’t want anyone to know.

  I stared at Marsha’s passed-out form.

  Marsha groaned loudly and rolled toward me. She smacked her lips, eyes still closed.

  I shoved the medicine and paper back into the bag. The computer made a whirling and clicking sound.

  “What the…” Marsha blinked a few times.

  The card was in one hand, the bag in the other. Quickly, I placed the card into my pocket, and shoved the pouch under the pillows.

  “Feeling better?” I walked over to the windows and adjusted the curtains, making sure rays of the dipping sun didn’t hit her in the face. I had a feeling a huge headache was coming Marsha’s way, if she didn’t already have one.

  “Where am I?”

  “Your room. I helped Garrison get you up here after we found you passed out in the bathroom.”

  “Passed out?” Marsha shot up. With a groan, she pressed her hands to her head and slunk back down to the mattress. “How? I wasn’t drinking.”

  I had no idea why she wanted to lie to me. Her breath smelled like a brewery. I wouldn’t be able to keep her in the room until
Bob got here if I called her out on the lie.

  “Then when you get home you might want to see a doctor. You were sound asleep on the bathroom floor.”

  Marsha smacked her lips a few times. “Can you get me a bottle of grape soda from the fridge? My head feels fuzzy.”

  “Sure.”

  “You can have one too.” The bedsprings squeaked. “How long have you been here?”

  “A little while.” I snagged two of the eight-ounce bottles. I turned and saw Marsha eyeing the edge of the medicine pouch poking out from under the pillow. “I was going to see if you were on anything that shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol.”

  “I’m not.” Marsha reached across the gap separating the two beds.

  I handed her a bottle before she toppled onto the floor.

  “Have you found out anything about the hit-and-run this morning?” Marsha placed the pouch back into the drawer and then gulped down some soda. “I need to know if my ex-husband is here and after me. I’m thinking it might be best I stay in my room.”

  “Not anything new. I have a friend who might be able to help you.”

  “A friend?” She chugged another long swig.

  “He protects people.”

  “Like a cop?”

  “In a way. You can trust him. He’s helped me in the past.”

  Marsha turned the can around in her hands. “On your other cases?”

  The doorknob turned.

  Grabbing my arm, Marsha yanked me toward her. “Hide,” she whispered into my ear.

  The hint of alcohol still remained on her breath. I pulled back a little. “Why? It’s your room,” I responded in the same low voice.

  “Because if it’s Lydia, I don’t want her to know someone had to bring me up here.”

  If it was Lydia, Garrison had told her we found Marsha in the bathroom, but I kept that part to myself.