“Uh huh…”
“I’ll need you to prove I didn’t kill Michael.”
I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I can’t do that. I don’t know how.”
She shrugged. “You’re an expert. Figure it out.”
“An expert? Wouldn’t that qualification go to the police who are investigating the case?”
“Faith, Detective Roget has already solved this case. He didn’t bring the prosecutors in here because he thinks I’m innocent. He’s going to arrest me for the murder of my husband.” Her voice grew lower and grief etched itself onto her face.
“It’s not right.”
“And that’s why you’re going to help me. I thought about it all the way here in the police car.” She crossed her arms and glared again. “Besides, you owe me.”
“I can’t get involved in this. I’m not a private investigator.” I tried to erase the responsibility guilt weaved around me.
“You were in JAG.”
“I typed reports and Article 15s.”
“You told us you transcribed cases.”
“Transcribe means taking notes during court. As in the case is being tried in front of judge and jury. CID investigates the crime, the military police arrest the suspect, and then JAG takes the case to court. I didn’t interrogate suspects and go to crime scenes.”
“Legal experience is legal experience.”
I wanted to bang my head against the wall. “Give the police time.”
Marilyn opened her mouth, but closed it as Detective Roget entered into the room followed by Steve.
“Marilyn Kane, I need you to stand up,” Roget said.
Nausea rose and I covered my mouth with my hand.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall, Davis.” Roget unclipped his handcuffs from his belt. “Why don’t you help Miss Hunter locate it?”
“Come on, Faith.” Steve reached for my hand.
I swiveled and his hand touched the empty air. “I’m fine.” Marilyn needed me. I wouldn’t abandon her.
“Marilyn Kane, you’re under arrest for the murder of Michael Kane.” Roget pulled Marilyn’s hands behind her back and slapped the cuffs around her wrists. The clink of metal striking metal reverberated through my body.
As he recited the Miranda warning, I numbed my emotions to stop the kindred feelings from dredging up my past.
The tears that threatened to emerge during the drive home tumbled down my cheeks. Using my foot, I shut the front door of my house and dropped my keys and purse. They plopped onto the carpet. I shuffled into the living room and collapsed onto the couch.
I flopped over and pressed a pillow against my face to muffle the sound of my sobs. If my grandmothers heard my cries through the walls, they’d rush over even though I sent Steve over with instructions and reassurance I was fine, but needed to be alone.
Murder. I shuddered. The word was ugly. The deed unimaginable. And the police believed Marilyn committed the action. Because of the evidence found. I slapped the traitorous thought away. Marilyn was my friend. Just because someone could’ve done something—had the motive to do something—didn’t actually mean they did it.
My ex-husband Adam, technically my never-was-husband, flashed into my mind. We can only think we know someone. Secrets and hidden agendas lurked inside everyone.
I stood and paced around the living room, avoiding the dining room I had turned into a scrapbooking area. Seeing my cropping tools and photo cast-offs littering the floor only reminded me of Michael’s murder and Marilyn’s arrest.
My gaze settled on the worn yellow-tinged chair in the corner of the room. An aged blue and yellow hand crocheted afghan was draped over the arm. The blanket Grandpa Tom would tuck around me as he told me stories about him and Grandma Hope and their son, my dad.
Growing up, I sighed at the romantic story of how two best friends meet and fell in love with two best friends. I loved looking at the pictures of the double wedding ceremony and always wished I could’ve seen it. The story continued years later when the only children of these two couples fell in love and got married. Two loving families merged into one. My grandparents celebrated by purchasing a three-family townhouse unit. The houses my grandmothers still owned. They lived in one unit together and rented out the other two, one to Steve and the other to me.
I picked up a framed photograph of my parents and me taken a week before they left for a three-week mission trip to China. The plane crashed before they left the United States, killing all on board.
Still holding the picture, I settled myself into the worn chair, tucking my feet under me. Even though Grandpa Tom died seven years ago, three months after his best friend and my other grandfather, Joseph, died, I could still smell his pine-scented aftershave. I joined the military right after my grandfathers’ deaths. Wanted to see the world. And run away from the grief and fear that my grandmothers would follow their beloved husbands into the afterlife. I wanted to be nowhere around to witness it.
It’s A Small World chimed through the house and I cringed. I picked that doorbell chime because of the whimsy and cheerful nature of the song. Today it felt silly and childlike. No wonder my grandmothers forgot that I was a grown-up.
I walked over and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. I paused. What if Detective Roget decided he had more questions—or accusations—for me?
“Faith?” My name in the form of question floated through the door. Steve.
I pulled the door open. Steve balanced a casserole dish and a plastic bowl in his hands. “Your grandmothers sent over some dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.” I started to close the door.
“Your grandmothers are watching.”
I tugged the door back open and stepped outside. Hope and Cheryl wiggled their fingers at me then scooted back into their house. If I didn’t let him in, one of them would be over before Steve made it home.
Sighing, I stepped aside. I did have some anger building up and I’d rather use it on him than my grandmothers. I loved and adored them, but they always smothered.
Steve offered an apologetic smile. “I tried getting out if it, but they seemed determined. I told them I hadn’t ate and promised to join you.”
“I don’t want company.”
“I know. And I actually already ate. I can sneak out the back if you like.” He flashed a grin. “They’d never expect me to lie to them.”
“Fine. You can stay. For now.”
I walked to the kitchen, but with each step I took, a voice in my head said I was making a huge mistake. I felt unbalanced by the events of the day. I might let my guard down and lean on Steve. A dangerous activity since my treacherous heart was looking for one hint it could latch onto a romantic entanglement with the sexy neighbor.
I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of ice tea. I needed to focus away from the feelings running loose in my head. Marilyn. Think about Marilyn’s situation.
Wait, Steve was a prosecutor. He could help me. Her. Help her.
“Roget took all the sharp-tip scissors from the store. Michael had to have been killed with a pair. So, it couldn’t be Marilyn.”
Steve paused, half of a plastic lid off the larger bowl, the other half remained attached. His unnerving deep brown gaze settled on me. “Why are you telling me this?”
I wandered over to the table and placed the pitcher down. Why in the world did I think this would be easy? I was cute, but not that cute. Actually, a plan like this called for hotness and my attire did nothing for achieving that effect.
Not that I wanted to look hot for Steve.
“Faith,” he said through gritted teeth.
I hated that warning tone, especially from a man. “I just thought all the facts about Marilyn’s cropping habits should be out in the open.”
“Thanks for telling me.” He looked around the kitchen. “Where’s the silverware?”
I reached up and took two glasses from the cabinet. “In the drawer near the sink. Marilyn hates using sharp-ti
p scissors. Loathes them, actually. She never uses them when scrapbooking.”
Steve sighed in an I-give-up manner. “Since you need to talk about this, I’ll grant your wish. Let’s start with the scissors in question weren’t used in the pursuit of a hobby.”
The frosted white glasses clinked on the top of the gold and red toned granite counter top. I planted my hands on my hips, spun, and faced him. “She didn’t do it.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He ran a hand over his smooth head. “You should let the police do their job.”
A scratch and howl at the back door diverted my attention. I plucked a can of cat food from a lower cabinet and ripped the top off. “I am. I let them search the store and didn’t stop them from taking anything they claimed was evidence.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Steve roved his gaze to the door then back to me. “Are you still feeding that cat?”
“He’s hungry.”
Ol’ Yowler, an orange tabby tomcat, had taken to me a few months ago. Of course, feeding an animal gained a person some loyalty. I handed Steve the bowl. “You feed him and I’ll serve us.”
Us. The word caused a jump in my pulse. I switched the subject. “Do you think Marilyn will get released on bail tonight?”
Steve opened up the back door and placed the bowl on the ground. Yowler hissed. Steve jerked his hand back and slammed the door. I pressed back my smile. Yowler was a very jealous male.
“I changed my mind,” Steve said. “Let’s talk about something else.”
There wasn’t anything else to talk about for me. My life revolved around my job and hobby, which linked to Marilyn. A chill worked itself down my spine. “Do you think she’ll spend the night in jail?”
“I don’t know.” Steve nodded at the food growing cold. “How about you eat?”
“Could you call and find out? What about her children?” I bit my lip and tilted my head, pleading with my eyes. “Maybe you can talk to someone and let them know the other details.”
“What other details?” Steve pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit.
“Like the fact Michael told Marilyn, who told me, the woman’s baby wasn’t his. That should be important.” I remained standing.
“That’s hearsay. Stay out of the investigation, Faith.”
“I don’t want to be part of the investigation. I only want to give the police all the information. I don’t want Marilyn to be charged with a crime because of what I said. That detective wouldn’t listen to anything I said unless it hurt Marilyn. He doesn’t like me.” I heard the whine in my voice and clamped my lips shut.
Steve looked into my eyes. The compassion and care he felt for me clear in the soulful depths. “Whatever happens is not your fault.”
“Then why does it feel that way?”
“Because you’re too hard on yourself. Don’t place Marilyn’s choices on your shoulders.”
Steve wouldn’t understand what was happening to Marilyn. I did. I knew what it felt like for someone to take your words and twist them into the most damaging meaning available.
SIX
After the snooze alarm went off for the third time Sunday morning, I pushed back the comforter and draped my legs over the side of the bed. When guilt brewed inside my heart, church was the last place I wanted to spend time. The feeling always intensified and I felt worse. All the mistakes I’ve ever made played themselves in my head like a recording of a sports blunder on the evening news.
How could I stay home and feel sorry for myself when Marilyn was in jail? While my tumbling emotions kept me from sleeping, at least I had lain awake in my own bed rather than in a cot surrounded by bars.
I tuned the radio to the Christian music station and cranked it up. On Sunday, I felt guilty listening to anything other than gospel or contemporary Christian music. Before stepping into the shower, I adjusted the water to lukewarm. Hot steamy water would delay me even longer, but I couldn’t torture myself with a stream of ice water.
Ten minutes later, dressed in my church finest, I stood in front of the mirror and groaned. There was no way I’d pull the “I’m fine” look off today to my grandmothers. Four hours of fitful sleep didn’t leave a person refreshed. Good thing makeup was an option so I could cover up the dark circles. As I blotted on the light beige foundation beneath my eyes, and tried not to think about Marilyn, my mind went to the next logical musing.
Who killed Michael? And why?
Marilyn did had the best reason, and the most evidence against her, but I knew she wouldn’t kill her husband. She loved her children too much to hurt them like that. She wasn’t a violent type of person. Then again, when reporters interviewed neighbors and friends, no one ever said, “Yep, I knew that one would go off the deep end and kill somebody one day.”
The phone rang and I welcomed the interruption.
“Did you see the paper this morning?” Sierra asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Not yet.” But I had a good idea the headline announced Marilyn’s arrest to all of Eden.
“Harold, do not dump the syrup on your brother. No, you can’t butter him either. Howard, I don’t care that you love butter and want him to.”
Conversations with Sierra always happened in this haphazard manner. It was a miracle either of us remembered the real topic. I went to my dresser and rummaged around for a pair of knee high socks to wear with my boots.
“No one in this house can be lathered in butter or syrup,” Sierra said, the exasperation growing in her voice. “I just can’t believe it.”
“That one of your boys decorated his sibling with breakfast condiments?”
“Concentrate, Faith. We’re talking about the newspaper.” She took in a deep breath. “Marilyn was arrested for murder.”
“Oh.” It was the safest response.
“The bail hearing is set for Tuesday. It looks like the prosecution will be asking for a huge bond.”
“What?” How would the Bennett’s come up with the money? I collapsed onto the mattress and the bed beckoned for me to stay home.
“That’s what the article says. I’ll talk to you about it after church. We should both be leaving soon as Marilyn’s parents will need all the support they can get.”
I dragged through the rest of my primping routine. The last thing I wanted was to talk to Marilyn’s parents. How would they feel knowing I helped put their daughter into jail?
I trudged out to my car, unlocked the door, and got inside. After uttering a prayer for strength and good sense, I made my way to Eden Community Church. From down the road, I saw the white cross that topped the steeple of the one hundred and fifty year old church. The freshly painted white wooden building gleamed under the sunlight. Flowers readying to bloom bordered the walkway leading into the church.
“Give me courage,” I muttered, gathering up my purse and Bible then opened up the car door. I stepped outside into the air tinged with cold.
I made my way up the steps and tried sneaking inside, but the renovation on the outside hadn’t made its way inside. The swinging doors leading from the foyer into the sanctuary creaked. Heads turned. Heat flashed across my face and down my neck.
Eli and Gloria Bennett, Marilyn’s parents, settled their gaze on me. I attempted a supporting smile but my mouth froze in a grimace. Lowering my head, I quickly slid onto the nearest pew. The hair on the back neck prickled. I shifted in the seat but still felt the sensation of someone staring at me.
Opening my Bible, I rested it on my lap and acted like I was reading while I peered through my lashes at the people around me. No one seemed interested at all. I wasn’t quite sure if I should be offended or not.
The choir started singing All is Well With My Soul. How I wished I could sing the song as the truth. But as I sung, the feeling of impending doom increased. I scanned the pews and spotted Elizabeth and Mark Kane, Marilyn’s teenaged children, glaring at me from the other side of the church. So tha
t’s where the hatred originated.
Gloria frowned and twisted her neck. She met my gaze and then blanched. Facing forward, she elbowed her granddaughter and reached over and smacked her grandson on the leg with her bulletin.
Tears burned my eyes. I jumped up and scurried out of the church, praying I didn’t draw any interest. The tears raced down my cheeks, blurring my vision. My heel slipped on the edge of the concrete step and I pitched forward.
My breath hitched in my throat as steady footing vanished. I flailed for the rail, relief rushing through me when my hand gripped it. I regained my balance and sat down on the stairs, knowing my shaking legs wouldn’t support my weight for one more step. Drawing up my knees, I rested my head on them.
I didn’t blame Marilyn’s children one bit for being mad at me. My words and actions helped build the police’s case against their mother. Why couldn’t I have found a way not to tell the police what she said?
Fabric draped around my shoulders. The smell of cinnamon and lilacs enveloped me. I tugged the ends of Grandma Hope’s shawl tighter around my body, twisting my fingers into the fringe of the hand-knitted garment.
“Faith, sweetie, please come back inside. It’s so cold out here.”
“I shouldn’t have come today,” I choked out, not looking up at her.
Hope settled beside me and gently squeezed my hand. “I’m glad you came. I’m proud of you.”
“For coming to church?” I wiped my cheeks with my palm before I looked at her. “Is it that much of a miracle?”
Hope shook her head and tapped me under the chin. “Is that anyway to talk to your grandmother?”
“I’m sorry.” I leaned closer to her.
She guided my head to her shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. “Sweetie, I knew it would be hard for you to come today. For some reason, since you came home from the Army, you see judgment from everyone. And I knew you’d expect it today.” She kissed the top of my head. “But there’s a difference between concern and criticism.”
“My being here is upsetting the Bennett family.”
“That’s nonsense. I talked with them this morning and they are just as upset with how the police treated you as they are how that Detective behaved toward Marilyn.”
Cropped to Death (Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery) Page 4
