Cropped to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  Roget leaned forward. “This is about you.”

  ELEVEN

  A cool breeze blew across the parking lot, whistling through the air, rustling the decorative flags hanging in front of the stores. The wind pierced through the cotton fabric of my t-shirt and I wrapped my arms around myself. The empty parking lot didn’t leave any protection from the small gust. The smell of pine drifted on the air, filling my lungs with a purity that existed in the mountains. I rubbed my hands against my arms and hoped Detective Roget planned to go next door to Home Brewed. It was close and Dianne made the best coffee in town.

  Though I wasn’t sure if what Roget wanted to say, I wanted heard by people who knew me.

  I stopped in front of Home Brewed and held out my hand, stopping Roget from opening the door. “Can we just get this over? No need to go through all this pretending.”

  “You always make such interesting word choices.” Roget stepped away from the door and leaned one hip and shoulder against the brick wall.

  The look in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He dug. Not too deep to find out what was hidden, but enough to know I buried something. “I’m not planning on getting involved in the investigation anymore.”

  Just planned on hiring someone to do the work for me.

  Roget crossed his arms. “I have a feeling it’s the accidental participation I need to keep my eye on.”

  The icy tone of his voice gripped my scalp and skittered down my neck. His words hinted at too much.

  “I wanted to help my friend.”

  “For the record, twelve years’ experience as a homicide detective trumps five years in JAG when it comes to the ability to solve a murder.”

  My hands shook as he layered on the details of my past. “It had nothing to do with thinking badly about you…”

  “So you think about me.” He grinned.

  “As a police officer.” I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. The heat of anger took away the chill in the air and the arctic-cold in my heart. “Is this the way you always question people? Doesn’t sound very professional.”

  “I didn’t know I was questioning you.” He pulled out a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. “Should I be?”

  “You said you needed to talk to me.”

  “I just wanted to clarify something I overheard. With you touting yourself as such a good friend of Marilyn’s, I decided to ask you. “

  “Oh.” I had allowed my imagination to run away with me and figured Detective Roget discovered everything. How could he, since he couldn’t see that Marilyn didn’t kill her husband? For some reason, the man brought out my irk. Maybe it was the badge and the gun. Two items that always made me a little paranoid.

  Even when I knew I was on my best law-abiding behavior.

  “A woman stormed into this coffee shop.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the sign for Home Brewed. “She started ranting about cheating employees and how they shouldn’t get away with crimes.”

  “Blond, brown eyes, a little taller than me? Carrying a Vera Bradley purse?”

  Again, that eyebrow quirked up, but the expression on his face showed confusion instead of sarcasm.

  “A fabric purse in a blue and purple paisley fabric. That’s a flower-like pattern. “

  “Sounds like her. Who is she?”

  “Darlene Johnson. She’s entering into a layout contest at the store and feels the rules aren’t fair.”

  Disappointment flooded his features. Women drama over scrapbooking contests didn’t quite compare to murder and mayhem.

  “Who’s cheating and why the anger at the employees?”

  I explained the issue Darlene had with the competition. The last time we had a contest at the store, Robyn’s entry had been vandalized, but the ripped elements and splattered ink splotches improved the layout and Robyn won. That had been a huge hit to Darlene’s ego and an amusement for the rest of the customers in the store.

  We never did find the culprit. I suspected Stephanie messed with her sister’s layout in order to give her a better chance at winning and to thwart Darlene’s smugness. Nobody could ink or distress a page better than Stephanie. She was a legend at using those techniques.

  “Darlene was worried I’d enter the contest. She doesn’t think employees should participate.” I ended the overlong explanation that caused a glaze to form in Roget’s green eyes.

  “That makes sense.”

  “It’s not like I could. One, I’m conducting the crops for the contest geared toward new scrapbookers. Two, I was manning the booth at Scrap This with Sierra and didn’t have time to take pictures before the show closed.”

  “You didn’t step away from the booth at all?”

  I shook my head. “Hope and Cheryl were part of the organizing committee and visited all the booths. That left Sierra and me to run our makeshift store.”

  “I thought your other employee was also working at the booth that day.”

  “Linda Anderson was there, but stepped away. Scrapbook layout drama.”

  He snapped his notebook shut without having written down a word or even making a squiggle line. “Well, if you have any problem with rioting women, call the station and they can send some officers for crowd control.” He offered a patronizing grin and turned to leave.

  A swarm of uniformed male officers would restore order. Not because of the authority of the police, but most women swooned at the sight of a man in uniform. There was just something unexplainably flirt-worthy about an authority uniform whether it be police, military, pilot, fire department, or even the UPS guy.

  “That’s all?” I lifted my arms and held my palms face up. “You pulled me away from work because of a rumor?”

  “It wasn’t actually a rumor since the woman actually felt that way. I just needed to know if it had anything to do with my case. Maybe Michael wasn’t the only Kane committing adultery.”

  Fuming, I stomped back to Scrap This and yanked the door open. The bell jostled and the jingle sounded like a cry of panic. Wasn’t it bad enough he arrested Marilyn for murder? Did he really have to insinuate she was having an affair?

  “Is everything all right?” Cheryl said.

  “Everything’s good.” I barely refrained from snapping.

  “Are you sure?”

  The look on my grandmother’s face calmed my temper and I relayed the basics without the drama. “The detective overheard Darlene ranting in Home Brewed. He thought it was something more sinister than a scrapbooking contest.”

  She heaved out a breath and attempted a reassuring smile. “Now, I don’t want you to worry…”

  My stomach plummeted to my feet. Nothing revved up the worry gene more than the phrase “I don’t want you to worry.”

  Cheryl squeezed my arm. “Hope and I are going home early. Reviewing all the financial records wore Hope out. And while I could let her take the car…”

  Grandma Cheryl didn’t want her dearest friend driving home exhausted. I hugged her. “Go on home. Linda’s still here. We can manage the store just fine.” I almost said business was slow, but kept that locked inside my head.

  I pointed toward the counter. “It looks like some contest entries have been dropped off, I’ll start arranging those on the display boards.”

  “You’ll stay out of trouble?”

  Refraining from rolling my eyes, I nodded. “I promise to stay out of trouble.”

  “Will we see you tonight for dinner?” Cheryl asked.

  “Don’t wait for me. Our reshelf basket is near overflow and with all the distractions today, I haven’t planned any of the upcoming crops. I want to have instructions and samples printed up.”

  “I’ll put some dinner in your refrigerator. All you’ll have to do is reheat it.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  Love shone in her eyes. “What a silly thing to say to your grandmother.”

  I gathered up the layouts and walked over to the display boards. I hummed a made up tune as I arrange
d the layouts on the board. Stepping back, I tapped my finger against my chin. Not quite right. Two pages using black and white as the predominant colors blended together like a two-page layout rather than two separate ones. I placed an entry that used green and pink between them. Perfect.

  Linda rummaged around in a box behind the counter, muttering to herself.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  She nodded and continued the search.

  I walked over to the counter, leaned onto it, and then stood on my toes to look into the box. “Can I help?”

  Linda turned and huddled over the box, blocking my view from seeing any contents. “Did the police take anything we brought to the Art Benefit Show?”

  “Not that I recall. What seems to be missing?”

  “It’s probably in my bag at home.” Tears gathered in Linda’s eyes.

  “I don’t think we’ve unpacked all the merchandise. If you let me know what it is, I’ll be on the lookout for it.”

  “My layout.” Fluttering her fingers in front of her face, she tried to fan away the tears. “I’m sure it’s at home.”

  Sympathy filled my heart. The missing layout was probably the one of her husband and son we tried repairing. “If you want, you can leave now to look. I can handle closing on my own.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t leave you alone.”

  I smiled. “Sure you can. I’ve closed alone before, and it’s not like we had a large crowd in here today. It won’t take long to straighten up.”

  She picked up her purse and shoved her hand inside, a muffled jingle escaped. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. If you don’t find the layout at home, give me a call and I’ll check here before I leave. “

  “Thanks.” Clutching her keys, she scurried out the front door.

  After Linda left, I locked the door and started cleaning. My mind wandered to Detective Roget. Chewing on my lip, I picked up randomly placed items and put them into a basket. He dug into my background. He knew how many years I spent in the Army. What else did he know about that time?

  I should stay out of the investigation so my skeletons remained firmly in the closet, but what kind of person abandoned friends in order to protect their own self-interest? Not the type I wanted to be.

  I gently tapped the edges of the cardstock and pushed them back onto the rack. Hiring a private detective would help Marilyn and distract the police detective away from me. I’d let the PI do all the heavy lifting, the real nosy questions, and I’d keep to the more mundane tasks like wrangling information from Steve.

  There weren’t any PIs in Eden. I needed to check online, see who in Morgantown was reasonably priced, and handled murders. Though I don’t know if they’d advertise that in the phonebook. And who wouldn’t mind traveling here. With the cost of gas, the hour trip would get expensive. I could always offer expenses on top of the fee.

  Walking through the aisles, I pulled damaged merchandise from racks, shelves and the floor. The calculator in my mind added up the tab. Our bottom line kept getting worse. I picked up a sheet of wedding stickers someone tore from the roll and then crumbled into a ball. If they’d change their mind on the purchase, they could’ve brought it up to the counter for us to sell at a discount.

  I dropped my finds into the damaged goods bin. I heaved out a sigh, then grabbed my purse, relieved that the long, horrible day had reached its end. Tomorrow could only get better. Or so I hoped.

  Stepping out into the dark, I turned my back to the velvet blackness and locked the back door. The night echoed a spookiness I never felt before and a chill danced along my spine, wobbling my knees and my hands. Holding my breath, I strained my ears for any sounds.

  For the first time, I didn’t feel safe in my community. With shaking hands, I tugged the key from the door and tested the knob. Locked tight. I scanned the lot, hit the button on my key chain, and ran the three feet to my car. The car blipped. I yanked the door open and threw myself inside.

  The leather seat felt like a safe embrace. Determined to quiet the irrational terror, I turned on the car and flicked on the high beams. Only three things were in the back lot: me, my car and the dumpster. My heart rate slowed.

  I pulled onto the deserted main road. Eden’s nightlife drew people away from our town, not toward it. The highlights included bingo, little league baseball, high school football and the occasional summer night vintage car cruise on Main Street. Fun times. The newspaper even listed all baby showers, birthdays, and weddings in the community section. Everyone knew to check with the newspaper before they planned any shindig, unless they wanted low attendance.

  Headlights flooded my car and an engine roared behind me. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The car surged forward, then eased back. I squeezed the steering wheel, feeling the grooves of the leather biting into my hands. My neck muscles tightened and I clenched the wheel.

  Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. The exercise failed to calm me. Before full panic erupted, the stalker car turned. The breath I held in rushed from my lungs. Three more minutes and I could lock myself safely inside my home.

  Turning down my road, the front windows of the three connecting townhouses illuminated the roadway with a burnished yellow light. Leave it to my grandmothers and Steve to welcome me home with a blaze of florescent protection. I pulled my Malibu onto the paved driveway. The porch lamp clicked on and highlighted the garden that would be filled with pink, purple and white haciendas once spring became a stable season in West Virginia.

  Stepping out of the car, I reached back inside and yanked out my purse, and used my hip to shut the door. A light touch grazed my arm. I squealed and whirled. The strap of my purse slipped from my shoulder and I clutched it, preparing to use it as a weapon against my attacker.

  A nearby door opened. “Faith?”

  Cheryl’s voice.

  Hank Brodart, Sierra’s husband, steadied me with a hand to my elbow. “Did I scare you?”

  I slowed my breaths. “I’m okay, Grandma, don’t call the police.”

  “Who said anything about the police? I’ll go put Charlie back in his corner. “

  “Charlie?” Hank asked.

  “The shotgun she uses for hunting.” I unlocked my front door.

  “I didn’t know your grandmother hunted.”

  “She hasn’t yet, but she’s willing to start any day.” I looked over my shoulder at Hank. “And was about to start with you.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Not as sorry as you almost were.”

  As my anger faded, I realized Hank was at my house. Sierra popped in from time to time, but not Hank. Unless there was an unnatural occurrence created by one of the Hooligans. I took my car key from my fob and held it out. “What did the boys do to the car this time?”

  “Long story I’d rather not get into.” Hank took the keys. “I’ll bring them back in a few. Just need to pick up a part then head back home.”

  “No problem. I can always catch a ride into work with my grandmothers.”

  “I’ll get them back to you tonight.”

  “If I don’t answer right away, just drop it my mailbox.”

  “Will do.”

  Waving goodbye, I closed the door and locked it. An ingrained habit from the short time I lived with Adam. The base was protected and I thought it was silly to lock every door and window. I grew up with unlocked doors and friends walking right in. Adam trusted nobody, said he wanted me safe at all times. I thought he was being protective, cherishing me, but learned he had good reasons for those fears.

  Wandering toward the kitchen, I flipped on the reading lamp in the living room. The light on the phone blinked. Voicemail. My finger lingered over the play button. Whoever it was could wait until tomorrow morning.

  I made a sandwich, passing on the meatloaf and mashed potatoes Cheryl left, and devoured it in less time than it took to take out the lunchmeat and condiments.

  As I put my plate in the sink, a movement near the kitc
hen window drew my attention. I squinted out. Darkness obliterated anything in the yard. I couldn’t even make out the cherry blossom tree smack dab in the middle of the back garden or the deck that stretched eight feet from my house. I stretched onto my toes, leaned closer to the window. Blackness echoed back at me.

  TWELVE

  Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window the next morning, hitting the beveled glass cabinet doors and dancing the yellows, blues and reds around the room. Pressing my hands on the counter, I rose and studied the backyard, looking for something out of place. Everything appeared as usual.

  My imagination had worked overtime last night. In my dreams, I envisioned Roget lurking around the yard, holding up a sign proclaiming all my faults and secrets.

  I yawned and filled my travel mug with my second cup of coffee of the day. The scent of the dark, nutty brew filled my being and some of the exhaustion trickled from my bones.

  Stepping onto the front porch, I glanced around the cement for my newspaper. I slipped my artist tote from my shoulder and leaned over the railing and looked into the small bush beside the porch. I paid the bill, so the carrier shouldn’t have skipped my house.

  Another theory wormed into my mind. My grandmothers snitched the paper to keep me from reading about the developments in Michael’s murder, a more likely scenario than the carrier having a grievance against me, or a paper thief running amok.

  My purse chirped. I rummaged around for the phone. Pen. Notebook. Granola bar. Class sample layouts I needed to complete. On the fourth ring, I finally grabbed the device. I pulled it out and looked at the number flashing on the screen. Hope.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I answered in my most chipper voice.

  “Sweetie, can you run some errands before you come in?”

  “Of course.” Great. Now I needed the pen and notebook I dropped back into the cavernous bag.

  “Thanks so much, honey. Stop by the pharmacy and pick up my vitamins. Lionel was closed earlier when I stopped by. I called and he said he’d have them at the register for you. Also, grab a package of those mints Cheryl loves. They’re located at the front register, by the bell.”