I wiggled myself around so I had the proper aim.
“You can stay there if you want.” Marsha squatted down and leaned over. “If you want the ice pack, I’ll leave it right here.” She placed it on the floor.
I remained pressed against the wall.
The mattress lowered toward me. “Is there anything particular you want to watch? Well, listen to?”
Was she out of her mind? I snaked my hand out and snatched the ice pack, might as well have some relief while I devised a new plan.
“Real Housewives?” she asked.
“The shouting will give me a headache,” I said. Okay, a worse one.
“It can get annoying. Let’s see… House Hunters. Or Pawn Stars. I love that show.”
I didn’t venture an opinion.
“Pawn Stars, it is. You know, I am sorry. I wanted to get your attention so I could explain something to you. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
Yeah right. I shifted positions hoping to relieve the tingling in my left arm.
“You hungry? I have a ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of chips. I’ll split them with you.”
“No.”
“Okay.” The bag rustled. Marsha crunched down on some chips. “These are really good, loaded baked potato. You sure you don’t want any?”
“You are the strangest kidnapper I’ve ever met.”
“Kidnapper?” Marsha squeaked. Something flopped onto the bed. The bedspring lowered toward me.
I flattened myself to the carpet. The comforter was yanked up.
Marsha’s forehead came into my view followed by the rest of her face. “Kidnapper? I didn’t kidnap you. You hit your head and I brought you up here for medical aid.”
“You called someone to help you cart me up here.” I rested my chin on my hands. What other explanation could there be?
“I couldn’t carry you up here myself,” Marsha said. “I called Lydia for help. She is my partner.”
Okay, that one made sense.
“What were you making me grab earlier?” I asked.
“I was checking your pulse.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I was out of it, but not that out of it.”
She sighed. “Okay, I’ll tell you but only if you come out and sit on the bed. The blood is rushing to my head and giving me a headache.”
“First, tell me why you grabbed me.”
“There’s no need to over dramatize it. I didn’t grab you. I tapped your shoulder.”
She wanted to lecture me about drama?
“I needed to clear something up between us and wanted to say it in private.”
“About your ex-husband looking for you?”
“About your ex-husband.”
“Mine?” I croaked out. Did Morgan decide to go after my professional reputation, then muddy up my personal life?
“Yes. I didn’t want to believe Morgan at first, but the guy had some newspaper clippings. It sounded like you went through a bad time.”
“That’s what he said?”
“No. He said you were a murderer and set your husband up to take the fall. I didn’t believe that part of it.”
“You didn’t?” I inched my way out and rolled over.
Marsha knelt on the bed and offered me a hand. “If his story was true, why not go to the police with his information? And he waited until after he saw us talking together to tell me. I know men like him. Bullies. I’ve been running from one for ten years.”
I accepted her hand. Shakily, I rose to my feet and clambered onto the mattress. “Do you think your ex-husband hired Morgan to track you down?”
“At first I didn’t think so as he seemed more interested in you. But after what I heard this morning…” Marsha fluffed some pillows and placed them against the headboard. “You rest right here. I have some chips left and half a sandwich. You’re welcome to it.”
“I’m not hungry. What did you hear?”
“You should have something.” Marsha opened up the mini-fridge. She held out two bottles. “Grape soda?”
“Marsha, tell me what you heard. That was why you wanted to get my attention. Remember?”
Marsha leaned against the armoire that housed the television and the refrigerator. She placed the soda bottles on top then wrung her hands together. “Did you see the picture Detective Bell’s passing around?”
“No.”
“It’s the woman killed. Apparently someone identified her.” She picked up the speed of her hand-wringing.
With my heart pounding, I sat up straight. I had never wanted anything as much as I did that name.
“The woman who died, her name—” A sob cracked Marsha’s voice. “Was Marsha Smith.”
I was glad I was sitting. My cell phone was on the night stand, a few feet away. Could I grab it and contact Bob before Marsha reacted? Or snatch it and get the heck out of her room?
“I didn’t think he’d find me. My plan was perfect. I searched for Marsha Smith’s on a vacation properties rental site. I found one in Morgantown. She was going on a cruise with her mother and wanted to find a renter who wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her aging cat.”
“So, you agreed to it and then came here?” How could she leave the poor cat alone?
Looking at the ground, Marsha nodded. “I had the retreat this weekend but needed some place for after it ended. I figured since her house was only twenty minutes away, I could pop over there during the day and check up on it. It wasn’t like I was the only one running the crop.”
That explained her “disappearing acts.” Marsha knew the woman and kept it from the police… and the poor woman’s family. I scooted to the edge of the bed and pushed myself up. My head throbbed but I wouldn’t back down.
“You knew her. You lied to the police. That woman’s mother had to have been worried sick not knowing why her daughter didn’t show up.”
“I hoped to get away from here before someone found out.” Marsha wiped the tears dripping from her face. “My ex-husband is a cop. If the police took me in, he’d find out. That’s why I needed to talk to you.”
“You want me to tell the police for you?”
“No. I didn’t want you to tell the police on me. I figured you would since you took it.”
My heart revved up. I was certain I knew what “it” was but had to find out for certain. “Took what?”
“An identification card I had made. You’re the only one who would’ve taken it.” Marsha grasped my hands as if she was about to propose. “You have to understand I didn’t have any other choice. The only way to never see him again was to change my name. Being myself wasn’t working. I hoped being honest with you would make you understand. I can’t let the police find out I kind of knew her. They’d arrest me.”
I sorted through the questions swirling through my mind. Something wasn’t adding up. I moved away from her. “How did this Marsha know to find you here?”
A blush crept across her cheeks. She bit her lip and averted her gaze for a few moments. After taking in a deep breath, she heaved out a sigh. “I left some of the paperwork for the crop at her house. She must’ve forgotten her passport or something and came back home and saw I was gone. I hadn’t told her I was going to do double duty this weekend.”
“You have to tell Detective Bell. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that secrets will come out. And it’s better if you tell them than someone else.”
“But he’ll think I murdered her.”
I started rolling my eyes but stopped as it made me dizzy. “No, he won’t. You couldn’t have been driving the car and standing on the curb at the same time.”
“You’re right.” She smiled and then it faded. “But what if he thinks I had something to do with it?”
I rubbed my temple. “He won’t. Unless you keep the truth from him. Plus, if you think it was your ex-husband responsible, Bell will look into that and if you’re right then your ex is in jail and can’t hurt you.”
Marsha looked doubtful. I understood. When you lived in fear of the person who vowed to love, cherish, and protect you till death do you part–and discovered that death might be by their hands—it changed you. It was hard to trust anyone after that—even yourself.
Marsha took a bottle of grape soda from the top of the armoire.
“I wouldn’t drink that.”
“Why?”
“Because I think someone tampered with your drink.”
She glanced down, a look of horror on her face. An empty brown bag and plastic grape soda bottle was on the floor.
“You put my fingerprints on the bottle!” I took in a few cleansing breaths and repeated to myself what I told Marsha. I couldn’t be tied to the death as I had almost been run over too.
“No,” Marsha’s voice filled with outrage. “I was checking to see if your fingerprints were the ones on the bottle. They didn’t match up.”
“You put my fingerprints over the ones on the bottle?”
“I wanted to see if they were your prints,” Marsha said.
“Why?”
She moved from the bed, placing herself near the door. “You tell me why you were carrying it in a stapled paper bag, and then I’ll tell you why I did it.”
“Because it’s evidence,” I said. “I think I know who killed Morgan. The same person who I think has been tampering with your drink.”
Marsha’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? We know who killed him, the PI who’s a friend of yours. That’s why you were bringing it up here. I understand wanting to save your friend but I don’t want to be suspected of killing Morgan either.”
“I was taking it to my room until the police came for it. Bob didn’t kill Morgan. He had no reason.”
“I heard he was fighting with Morgan earlier in the day. Even pulled a gun on him.”
“No, he didn’t.” I kept the fact that he wanted to, and almost did, to myself.
“That’s what I heard.”
I’m sure what Bob had done became a little more dramatic with every retelling down the gossip chain. “And that made you want to see if my prints were on the bottle?”
“I thought you were going to plant it in my room,” Marsha said.
“Why would I do that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because the ID disappeared from my room right after you got here. You had to have taken it for some reason.”
“If you knew I took it, why didn’t you ask me about it?”
Marsha looked down at the carpet. “Morgan told me you were setting me up to take the fall for the hit-and-run that killed the other Marsha. He said you do it a lot. Commit a murder and then find someone else to blame.”
“I was outside. I almost got run over by the same car. How in the world could I be driving it?”
“I didn’t believe him that you killed her. But I did think you thought I had something to do with it.” She squeezed the bottle. It crackled. “Then he started asking questions about my family. My ex-husband. How I got into this business with Lydia.”
“He made you nervous.”
She nodded. “He kept talking about someone not being who they said they were. I figured my ex-husband sent him here to find out if I was the Marsha Smith who got away from him.”
My heart hurt for her. Marsha was scared, and uncertain of who to trust. The only person she felt she was able to confide in was me, the same woman she thought suspected she was a murderer.
“Yesterday, a cropper registered using the name Violet Hancock. I think it’s a fake name.”
“Really?” Marsha looked at me with wide blue-eyes.
I nodded. The movement made me dizzy. “Yeah. She sat at a reserved space and insisted you told her to sit there when she registered.”
“I don’t remember registering someone by the name of Violet.”
“You didn’t. I checked. There was no registration form for her. I think someone’s been drugging you. That’s why I was bringing the bottle up here. It was at the table where Violet cropped.”
“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 I didn’t want t
o 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.”
Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death Page 20
