Framed to Death (A Faith Hunter Scrap This Mystery Book 4)

by Christina Freeburn

  He eyeballed me with that look of superior indifference only a cat possessed.

  For as long as I’d lived here, Ol’ Yowler was the neighborhood prowler. Many before me had tried coaxing the cat inside to live, and all failed, as the tabby seemed born to wander. It wasn’t until this year’s awful winter that Yowler decided to accept my offer of a warm place to call home. He claimed the office as his own, treating me like an unwanted guest barging into his domain.

  I scrolled through the pictures on Hannah’s Instagram account, trying to find the date she first suspected Whitney was involved in selling—or at least giving—drugs to Brandon. Most of the pictures on her account were everyday teenage girl stuff: celebrities, memes of angst and woe over parent-controlled life, food, and selfies.

  Not one of a football game or bonfire. Either Hannah never took photos at them, or she never went to one. How would she know about the cigarette Brandon smoked? I checked her list of followers. Time to browse Kirstin and Whitney’s photos.

  Now I was getting somewhere.

  “Whitney loves to party. And Kirstin loves taking photos.” Once this mess cleared up, I needed to get her into scrapbooking. If we won one teen over to the hobby, we’d have more joining in. The hobby was on a downswing and desperately needed a resurgence in interest before all scrapbooking stores closed.

  On Kirstin’s page, there were pics of roasting hot dogs, bag of marshmallows, stumps used as seats, and teens passing a hand-rolled cigarette. I zoomed in. There was no way to tell if the cigarette was tobacco or synthetic marijuana. None of the pictures showed what the group used to fill the cigarettes. If there had been an organza bag lying around, I’d have something to pass on to the police.

  Ol’ Yowler plopped his hefty body onto the keyboard, flashing the pictures at warp speed.

  “Knock it off.” I prodded at the cat. He made himself more comfortable. Finally, I wrangled him onto my lap, where he seemed content for the time being.

  I brought the cursor back to where I had left off, pausing when I spotted a picture of the lot beside Made With Love. The next photo was a selfie. Kirstin beamed and the teens in the background looked like they were having a good time. A rock circle contained the bonfire. The flames were about six feet into the air, highlighting all the faces of the kids huddled around it. Near the edge of the woods was a girl. Whitney.

  I zoomed in. Andrew Taylor was half in, half out of the wooded area. What was he doing there?

  My cell rang, startling me and Yowler. My sudden jump earned me claws in my thighs. I removed the sharp nails from my legs and deposited the cat onto the floor. I scribbled “make a cat bed” in my calendar. The phone trilled again.

  Mrs. Barlow. I debated not answering it but knew the woman would come over. She could see my car in the driveway. “Hello.”

  “Your grandmothers said you were working at home today,” Mrs. Barlow said. “I hope that means my project for Lake is almost done.”

  Ugh. The scrapbook of Lake’s inventory. I’d forgotten all about it. The photos and scrapbooking goodies were on my crafting table downstairs. I had planned on working on it this evening. Dawn’s crisis sidetracked me.

  “I still have some pages to complete.” Like all of them. I saved the photos of the bonfire get-together to my hard drive. I’d make a copy and give them to Ted.

  “Lake needs them Monday morning.”

  “As soon as we hang up, I’ll get to work.”

  “Lake would like the title page to show the front of the shop. She had the brick front repainted and a new sign made.”

  While I was talking to Mrs. Barlow, Yowler returned to his perch on the keyboard. I left him there. Maybe his tapping on the keys would find something concrete to tie someone else to the drugs. I wasn’t so sure that Andrew’s presence made him the dealer. The man had been on the volunteer fire squad. He might have been there to ensure the fire was put out properly, and just did a horrible job at it.

  I took a slight detour to the kitchen and brewed myself an iced mocha. It wasn’t as tasty as the ones made at Home Brewed, but it was easier on my budget. I brought my travel mug over to the craft table and stared at the mix of pictures, pattern paper, and embellishments scattered everywhere.

  I arranged Lake’s photos by themes. There were pictures of every type of flower she sold, ribbons with varying widths and shades of black and gold, football balloons, even her cash register, and a small basket of satchels with dried rose petals, but not one of any of the hundred and sixty-four pictures were of flower arrangements she’d made.

  Why hadn’t Lake taken photos of those? She could’ve used them in a book to help sell her creations to customers. Maybe that was one of the reasons she struggled so much. She had nothing displaying her talent for clients to see, and she had incredible skills when it came to flower arranging. She had such a creative eye, she could put her own book together. All she needed was a gentle nudge, and someone to give her the confidence to try.

  I reached for my cell, knocking the pictures to the floor. Leaning over, I gathered them up, noticing the date on the back was Wednesday, the day before Lake’s shop burned down. Why would Lake pick that day to get the pictures printed? Coincidence?

  When it came to crime, I didn’t believe in coincidence. I studied the front of the pictures, hoping to see a date stamp on one of the pictures. The windows were clean and the prominent colors of ribbons were gold and black with football balloons floating in the background. A black ribbon slashed through a small wreath made of blue and white buttons. Hazard High School colors. The pictures were taken the day before the fire. The day before a home game, Lake always hung up a wreath using the opposing team’s colors. Why had Lake decided to take photos that day? Had she just finished doing the work to the outside of her shop? Or had she been worried the bonfire might cause damage?

  There was only one woman with the answers. I called Lake.

  “Lake Breckenridge, how can I help you?”

  “It’s Faith. I have a few questions about your scrapbook.”

  “Heather passed my project off to you?” Lake sounded incensed.

  “Mrs. Barlow was worried her skills weren’t up to showcasing your pictures for the insurance adjuster. Is there a certain style you’d like for the whole project page? Linear. Shabby chic. Abstract. Or do you prefer every page is unique and has a cohesive feel by using the same color scheme and embellishments on each page?” I rambled. The more I talked, the more the project woke up the conspiracy theory gal residing in my brain. Why did Lake want an album? Was it to prove she had these pictures for a long time and not just taken them?

  “I prefer you give my photos back to Heather.”

  “I started on the album.” Kind of. I moved the pictures into groupings. “Would you like a collage of your inventory? Do you have any shots of your arrangements?” I really wanted to keep her pictures until I studied them. Her behavior was odd.

  “Give them to Heather. She knows how I want it done.”

  “I can consult with her if you’d like.” Someone rapped on the front door, then rang the doorbell.

  “I don’t want you touching my photos,” Lake said. “Heather is on her way to get them back.”

  “Did you tell her—” I stopped the question. Officer Mitchell stood on my small front porch, tapping a rolled-up sheet of paper against the frame.

  “I have to go. The police are here.” I reluctantly allowed Officer Mitchell to step inside, pocketing my phone.

  “According to this police report, you were at the football game Friday night.” Mitchell unfurled the document, showing me the date on the top.

  It was my report about my stolen camera. “Yes, I was. I was returning to my car when someone stole my camera.”

  “Let me see if I understand all this. You attended the game Friday night. For the first time ever. Yo
u were so close to the players, you were jostled onto the field.”

  “Shoved,” I corrected him.

  “When you left, someone stole your camera.”

  The word “stole” held a completely different tone than when I said it to him.

  “And then Friday night, there was a hasty bonfire celebration put together, Made With Love burned down with Chad Carr inside, and lo and behold, Janie was found under the floorboards, in a location where someone could’ve entered through the crawl space at the side of the building.”

  When he listed everything out, it sounded more like I was engaged in committing a crime rather than trying to solve one.

  A crash coming from my office caused us to look toward the stairs. Darn that cat.

  “What’s that?” Mitchell headed for the stairs.

  “My cat.” I raced in front of him, planting myself on the second step, and holding out my arms. If he saw what I had on my computer, he’d have something else to add to his list of “Faith’s dubious behavior.” “His favorite game is pushing my collectibles off the shelves.”

  “I really should check it out. Maybe someone broke in.”

  “With a cop car parked out front? I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe they got here before me.” Mitchell tried shoving past me. I held my ground.

  “I’m sure it’s my cat.” Fortunately, Yowler decided now was the time to demonstrate the reason for his name. The guttural squall reverberated through the house. “See? Cat.”

  “Or an injured burglar.”

  Mitchell really wanted to get upstairs and check out my office. He must be hoping he’d find something to use against me, but without a warrant he needed a good excuse to go up the stairs.

  The front door burst open, and Mrs. Barlow charged inside, a woebegone look on her face. “I need those photos back. Lake is having the hissy fit of all hissys.” The excitement in her voice cancelled out her expression. This was making the older woman’s day.

  “I have a doorbell,” I said. “I’d appreciate you use it instead of barging in.”

  “I saw you had company. Didn’t think I should interrupt. I figured I’d sneak in and get Lake’s items for her.” Mrs. Barlow fixed a captivated gaze on Officer Mitchell. I wasn’t sure if it was because the man was attractive—though not likeable—or because there was a member of law enforcement in my house who wasn’t Ted.

  “You are interrupting.” I remained on the stairs as Mrs. Barlow gathered items from my craft table.

  “My apologies. Lake was just so insistent I retrieve her photos, I allowed my manners to slip. Why don’t you two carry on with your conversation? I’ll pack up the items for the album lickety-split. I’ll be so quiet, you won’t know I’m here.”

  Mitchell switched his gaze from me to Mrs. Barlow and then back again. He grinned. “Sure. Why not? So you were at the football game, near the bleachers for the Eden High School players, the very night there was a fire at Made With Love that burned it down, and police were finally able to locate drugs in the building. That happened the day after there was a picture of you handing a bag of Janie to a teenage girl.”

  “But Faith wasn’t at the bonfire with the players and cheerleaders.” Mrs. Barlow hoisted the strap of one of my totes onto her shoulder.

  “Is that so?” Mitchell leaned against the banister, moving his attention to Mrs. Barlow.

  “Yes. Obviously you’re not monitoring Instagram.” Mrs. Barlow raised her nose into the air, narrowing her eyes into slits as she pranced by.

  “We’d be able to close this investigation if some people weren’t protected.” Mitchell made it clear he was talking about me.

  “As I recall, I was questioned at the station. It’s nice that some officers know they can’t hold an innocent person responsible for the crimes of another.” I went up another stair for some personal space.

  “I know you’re trying to hold those teens responsible for what you’ve done. I won’t let it happen.”

  The doorbell chimed “It’s a Small World.”

  Mrs. Barlow yanked it open. “Good thing you’re here, Steve. There’s an officer accusing Faith of being a drug dealer when we all know it was Chad Carr.”

  Steve. I forgot about our dinner tonight. Steve wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and a purple-striped tie. He had planned for a fancy dinner out, while I still wore the t-shirt and jeans I’d tugged on this morning. His choice of attire also told me Steve believed we were getting back together. Why would a man dress up for a woman who was now in the category of “just a friend?”

  “Actually, we don’t know that either,” I said, feeling a need to defend the dead.

  “Change your mind?” Steve asked.

  “I’ve been preoccupied.” I tilted my head at Mitchell, putting all the blame on the officer rather than my sleuthing.

  “Is there a problem, Officer?” Steve asked.

  “Just here to follow up on Miss Hunter’s complaint of a stolen camera,” Mitchell said. “There was a crash upstairs and I offered to investigate it. Miss Hunter is very insistent I not go up.”

  “It’s just Yowler being obnoxious.”

  “Thanks for your diligence, Officer Mitchell, but I’m sure you have more pressing matters. I can check out the noise.” Steve maneuvered around me.

  “Are you coming, Officer?” Mrs. Barlow held the door open.

  “Yes.” Mitchell took the heavy bag off of Mrs. Barlow’s shoulder and slung it on his own. “How about you show me the pictures taken at the bonfire?”

  Mrs. Barlow batted her eyelashes at him. “I’d be delighted.”

  After the duo left, Steve gave me a good onceover. “I think a change of plans is in order. How about pizza?”

  Piece A Pie. After the fiasco at Made With Love, I totally skipped visiting Whitney’s other hangout. And Chad’s murder shoved it even further down into my memory. “Sounds perfect. Tell you what, I’ll meet you at Piece A Pie. I’d like to get cleaned up a little.” And turn off my computer, in case Mitchell found a way to wrangle a search warrant from a judge.

  Steve opened his mouth, I figured for an argument, and then closed it. “Fine. I’ll get us a table.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t think we’d have any trouble as business had been slow at Piece A Pie for a while, but I wanted to drive myself, so no sense giving him a reason to wait around for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Steve; I just believed it would be easier for him—and me—to go home in separate cars once I told him friendship was all I wanted.

  I changed out of my t-shirt into a light sweater and switched from sneakers to boots. At least I looked a little spiffier. I didn’t want to go overboard, but didn’t want to act like I didn’t care at all either.

  When I arrived at the pizzeria, Steve’s car was the only other one in the lot. The nonexistent lines on the asphalt made it hard to differentiate one spot from another. A lone lamppost was on near the front of the restaurant, an outline of a dumpster barely visible in the faded light. Out of habit, I parked near the lamppost and hurried inside.

  A buzz sounded when I opened the front door. Jim Ryland, the owner of the pizzeria, ran from the kitchen to the small hostess stand blocking the entrance into the dining area.

  “Welcome to Piece A Pie.” He wiped his hands on a stained apron, then grabbed a dusty menu. “Let me seat you.”

  “I’m joining Steve.” I pointed.

  “Okay.” He held out the menu. “When you’re ready to order, hit the bell on the table.”

  Using my fingertips, I accepted it. I must’ve looked surprised, because Jim launched into a long explanation of his wife’s illness, followed by other reasons for the bell.

  “I can’t afford extra help right now,” he continued on. “I’m making the pies, waiting tables, running the cash regist
er, and taking care of any maintenance issues.”

  “I’ll ring the bell.” Maybe Steve and I should find somewhere else to eat. Even with the place empty, it might take a long time to get our order. Then again, we couldn’t find a much more private place to eat than here.

  Steve was entertaining himself by spinning an empty cup on the table.

  “I got here as quickly as I could.” I sat on the vacant side of the booth. The faux leather creaked as I tried to make myself comfortable.

  The walls were devoid of art or any other decorations, and paint peeled off in chunks. The jukebox in the back corner of the pizzeria was cracked and unlit, the plug dangling half in, half out of the wall. A light flickered at the table right behind us.

  When I was in high school, Piece A Pie was the favorite teen hangout. The decor on the walls changed seasonally, often including posters made by students at the high school, usually about upcoming sporting events and dances. Now the walls were blank and everything looked sad.

  “I’d recommend plain cheese pizza and soft drinks,” Steve said.

  “I agree. Keep it simple.” I rang the bell.

  Jim ran from the back, pencil and order pad in his hand. “What can I get you?”

  After Steve placed our order, I jumped right into the heart of the matter, or at least the one concerning Chad Carr’s murder. I figured it was better to broach the other topic once I got some needed answers. “What did your boss think about Karen’s article? It doesn’t seem like the police are very interested in finding the murderer. Everything has been relatively quiet in Eden, considering a second business burned down and one of the owners died.”

  “What are you talking about?” Steve nodded a thanks as Jim placed our bottles of soda on the table.

  “The whole murderer or savior angle to her story. I haven’t heard there are any other suspects.”

  Steve twisted the tops off the bottles. “The police have another suspect in mind, but there’s some disagreement on how to handle the situation.”